I  ^.;     ; -,,.;. 


CYRUS  TOVNSEND  BRADY 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 


THE   SOLDIERS   LOOKED   AT   THE   BABY   WONDERINGLY 


A  BABY  OF  THE 
FRONTIER 


BY 


CYRUS  TOWN  SEND  BRADY 

AUTHOR  OF 

The  Little  Angel  of  Canyon  Creek,"  "  Britton  of  the 
Seventh/*  "  The  Eagle  of  the  Empire,"  etc.,  etc. 


Illustrated 


NEW  YORK  CHICAGO  TORONTO 

Fleming   H.  Revell   Company 

LONDON  AND  EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  1915,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  158  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago:  125  N.  Wabash  Ave. 
Toronto  :  25  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London  :  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh  :  100  Princes  Street 


TO    MY   VALUED   FRIEND 
CHARLES  HELY  MOLONY 


(*P 


NOTE 

Incredible  as  some  of  the  adventures  centring  about  the 
baby  as  hereafter  narrated  may  seem,  there  is  abundant 
justification  in  fact  for  them  all.  Most  of  them  really  hap- 
pened. Many  of  them  were  related  to  the  author  by  old  army 
friends  on  winter  nights  around  huge  log  fires  in  frontier 
posts  of  other  days,  vanished  long  since  like  most  of  the  char- 
acters in  the  story,  red  and  white. 

The  author  joys  in  the  relation  of  the  stories  of  the  brave, 
hard-fighting,  uncommon  soldiers  of  the  small  but  unmatch- 
able  regular  army,  with  which  this  book  is  chiefly  concerned. 
The  battle  with  Dull  Knife's  band  is  described  from 
Mackenzie's  famous  winter  fight  with  the  fierce  but  gallant 
Cheyennes. 

There  was  a  baby  of  the  frontier.  The  author  knew  that 
baby.  Some  day,  perhaps,  further  adventures  in  which  the 
baby,  now  grown  up,  participated  shall  be  set  forth  for  the 
delectation  of  the  reader.  C.  T.  B. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE 
THE  COMING  OF  THE  BABY 

I.     WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW  IN  THE 

MOUNTAIN  PASS        ...       15 
II.     THE  OLD  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  LIT- 
TLE COMMAND    ....       29 

III.  PREPARING  THE  DEFENCE    .       .       46 

IV.  THE  REPULSE  OF  THE  FIRST  AT- 

TACK      58 

V.    MERCY    IN    THE    BULLET    OF   A 

FRIEND 71 

VI.     DANNY  MEAGHERGrETS  THROUGH  85 
VII.     THE  WATER  OF  LIFE  AND  THE 

BLOOD  OF  A  MAN     ...  97 

VIII.    DANNY'S  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  .       .  Ill 

IX.     THE  SQUADRON  TO  THE  RESCUE  124 

X.    IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME       .        .  140 

XI.     THE  BABY  INTRODUCED  TO  HER 

FATHER 154 

9 


10  CONTENTS 

BOOK  TWO 
HOW  THEY  NEARLY  LOST  HER 

XII.     THE  BABY  GETS  "  ESCEUGED  "     171 

XIII.  LITTLE    MARION    CAPTUBED    BY 

THE  ENEMY       ....     189 

XIV.  DULL    KNIFE    OFFERS    AN    EX- 

CHANGE         203 

XV.     TROOPER  MEAGHER  DESERTS  TO 

THE  ENEMY!     ....  217 

XVI.    THE  HUNT  FOR  THE  BABY  .        .  231 
XVII.    DANNY    MEAGHER    SHOWS    THE 

WAY 240 

XVIII.    THE  COLD  HELL  OF  THE  PASS    .  260 

XIX.    THE  WINTER  FIGHT  272 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 
PAGE 

The   Soldiers  Looked   at   the   Baby  Wonder- 
ingly Title 


'  Ve  Told  'Em  to  Go  Vere  Dey  Vas  Going  "  .       56 


Molly    Suddenly    Presented    Her    Rifle    and 
Fired 100 

She  Waved  Her  Hand  at  Them  in  Childish 
Glee 192 

They  Plunged  Desperately  on  in  the  Drifting 
Snow 258 

Colonel   Compton   Clasped  the   Baby   in  His 
Arms  276 


BOOK  ONE 
THE  COMING  OF  THE  BABY 


DISCLOSES  WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW 
IN  THE  MOUNTAIN  PASS 

SERGEANT  McNEIL  suddenly  tightened 
the  bridle  rein  of  his  horse,  throwing 
him  violently  back  on  his  haunches.  Like 
all  good  cavalrymen  the  veteran  non-commis- 
sioned officer  dearly  loved  a  good  horse.  The 
severe  and  unexpected  pressure  of  the  ruthless 
curb  measured  the  sergeant's  surprise.  The 
horse  reared  and  then  plunged  violently  for- 
ward. A  less  practised  rider  would  have  been 
unseated.  McNeil  was  so  amazed  that  for  a 
moment  he  let  the  excited  horse  have  his  way. 
And  when  at  last  he  controlled  him  again,  he 
was  characteristically  gentle  with  him,  as  if 
to  make  amends  to  a  gallant  comrade  for  un- 
wonted roughness. 

The  sergeant  had  been  staring  straight 
ahead  down  the  pass.  For  all  he  had  been 
riding  nonchalantly,  almost  indifferently,  some 
little  distance  ahead  of  his  train,  nothing  in 

15 


16         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

front  of  Mm  escaped  his  vision.  Rounding  a 
huge  bend  in  the  canyon  he  had  an  unob- 
structed view  of  its  extent  for  a  mile  or  more 
as  it  fell  straightaway  before  him.  At  .the 
lower  end,  where  the  great  rift  through  the 
mountains  twisted  again,  his  searching  eyes 
had  caught  a  flash  of  color.  Something  had 
suddenly  appeared  against  the  canyon  wall, 
far  away  at  the  bend  of  the  trail  to  the  north- 
ward. It  was  a  long  view,  but  Sergeant  Mc- 
Neil would  have  taken  his  oath  that  the  color 
came  from  an  Indian  blanket. 

Had  the  splendid  soldier  been  accompanied 
by  none  but  the  score  of  hard  riders  of  the 
veteran  troop  of  which  he  was  the  senior  non- 
commissioned officer  he  might  have  started  at 
the  sight  of  the  Indians,  but  he  would  have 
started  forward,  not  back.  And  he  would  have 
called  on  his  men  to  follow  him,  confident  alike 
in  their  willingness,  their  obedience,  and  their 
ability.  Although  the  red  men  had  abun- 
dantly proved  their  prowess  and  soldierly 
qualities  many  a  time,  all  the  white  men,  im- 
bued with  that  indomitable  pride  of  race  to 
the  full,  held  them  in  more  or  less  contempt  as 
fighters. 


WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW  17 

Certainly  that  was  the  feeling  with  which 
they  were  regarded  by  the  rank  and  file  of  the 
Army  in  those  days,  and  McNeil  longed  for 
nothing  better  than  a  little  brush  with  a  war 
party  of  Sioux  or  Cheyennes  on  his  own  ac- 
count. He  was  too  old  and  fixed  in  mind  and 
habit,  too  humble  in  education  and  training,  to 
aspire  to  a  commission;  still  the  story  of 
the  defeat  of  a  wandering  war  party  by  a 
half  platoon  of  B  troop  of  the  old  "Fighting 
Fourteenth  Horse, "  under  the  command  of 
Sergeant  McNeil,  he  felt  would  read  well  in 
the  dispatches  and  general  orders. 

Unfortunately,  however,  the  sergeant  in 
command  was  seriously  encumbered.  For 
that  reason  he  had  started  back  instead  of 
forward.  He  was  not  free  to  indulge  himself 
in  any  rough  riding  or  hard  fighting.  Stop! 
That  last  might  be  forced  upon  him,  but  the 
rough  riding  was  out  of  the  question.  The 
sergeant's  chief  duty — his  only  duty  at  that 
moment — was  to  escort  that  small  wagon 
train,  which  he  had  picked  up  at  the  railroad 
station,  safely  to  Fort  Sullivan,  among  the 
hills.  The  train  contained  supplies,  mail,  and 
women.  There  was  first,  the  wife  of  the  major 


IB        A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

commanding  the  squadron  to  which  they  be- 
longed; second,  the  wife  of  Sergeant  McNeil, 
commanding  the  detachment ;  lastly,  his  young 
daughter,  Molly,  a  slip  of  a  girl  approaching 
fourteen. 

When  the  regiment  had  taken  the  field  in 
the  spring,  Mrs.  Compton  had  gone  East  and 
had  taken  with  her  Bridget  McNeil.  McNeil 
had  been  Compton 's  first  sergeant  when  he 
commanded  B  troop  of  the  Fourteenth  Regu- 
lar Cavalry,  and  among  the  faithful  people  to 
welcome  Marion  Compton  to  the  frontier 
when  she  had  come  there  a  bride  from  the 
East,  had  been  stout-hearted,  warm-blooded 
Bridget  McNeil,  the  sergeant's  wife.  That 
was  five  years  before.  Although  differences 
in  rank  and  station  separated  them  widely, 
the  warmest  friendship  had  sprung  up  be- 
tween the  two  women,  characterized  by  abso- 
lute devotion  on  the  one  hand  and  warm- 
hearted appreciation  on  the  other. 

Mrs.  Compton 's  mother  had  died  in  Ma- 
rion's infancy.  Her  father,  who  lived  in 
Washington,  D.  C.,  was  a  retired  Army  officer. 
She  had  few  friends  outside  the  service. 
When  it  was  borne  to  her  consciousness  that 


WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW  19 

there  would"  probably  be  a  little  Compton  in 
the  fall,  she  had  decided  to  await  the  event 
in  Omaha,  Nebraska,  where  she  could  be  well 
cared  for  and  yet  sufficiently  near  her  hus- 
band for  emergencies.  And  as  Sergeant  Mc- 
Neil was  with  Major  Compton 's  squadron  in 
the  field,  she  had  easily  prevailed  upon  the 
devoted  Bridget  to  accompany  her,  and,  of 
course,  Molly,  her  daughter,  had  gone  along. 

Some  time  after  arriving  in  Omaha  a 
telegram  brought  her  word  of  a  battle  in  the 
Northwest,  in  which  her  husband 's  command 
had  participated  with  many  others.  It  was 
an  unlucky  battle  for  Major  Compton,  for  he 
had  been  desperately  wounded  leading  a 
charge  against  swarming  masses  of  red  men. 
He  had  been  shot  through  the  body  and 
through  the  face.  After  a  hasty  examination 
they  had  laid  him  down  on  the  field  to  die,  but 
when  the  battle  was  over — and  it  was  a  drawn 
battle  at  that,  the  Indians  having  success- 
fully stopped  the  advance  of  the  little  army — 
the  busy  surgeon,  for  there  were  many 
wounded,  to  say  nothing  of  the  killed,  found 
Compton  still  alive. 

Fearing  the  effect  of  such  untoward  news 


20         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

on  his  wife,  the  gallant  soldier  had  begged 
that  the  fact  that  he  had  been  so  seriously 
wounded  might  be  kept  from  her.  But  there 
happened  to  be  with  the  force  a  war  corre- 
spondent, who,  bending  over  Compton,  lying 
in  the  shade  cast  by  a  nervous  broncho,  was 
astonished  to  hear  him  declare  that  soldiering 
was  a  great  life  and  fighting  the  only  trade! 
This  doughty  assertion  was  followed  by  ur- 
gent advice  to  the  correspondent  to  join  the 
army  then  and  there!  Incidentally,  Compton 
announced  that  he  did  not  intend  to  die  at 
that  time. 

The  campaign  was  over  for  that  year.  The 
troops  were  under  orders  to  return  to  their 
posts.  Fort  Sullivan  was  about  as  near  the 
battlefield  as  any.  Compton  was  carried  back 
there  sometimes  in  litters  by  hand,  sometimes 
on  a  travois,  sometimes  in  a  wagon.  The 
horrors  of  that  journey  are  not  to  be  dwelt 
upon.  It  was  the  thought  of  his  wife  and  her 
delicate  state  of  health,  he  afterward  de- 
clared, which  kept  him  alive  amid  all  the 
ghastly  agonies. 

Of  course  the  story  of  the  correspondent 
got  into  the  papers  and  Mrs.  Compton  read 


WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW  21 

all  about  it  in  the  first  dispatch  that  came 
long  after  the  battle,  for  the  army  had  been 
out  of  telegraphic  touch  while  in  the  field. 
She  moved  heaven  and  earth  for  tidings,  and 
finally  learned  from  the  department  that  her 
husband  eventually  would  be  found  at  Fort 
Sullivan  dead  or  alive. 

Although  the  journey  was  attended  by  the 
greatest  hazard,  she  made  up  her  mind  to 
make  it  without  hesitation,  as  became  a  sol- 
dier's wife.  By  the  time  she  got  the  news, 
she  calculated  that  the  returning  troops  must 
almost  have  reached  the  post.  She  hastily 
assembled  her  belongings,  including  the  dainty 
layette,  over  which  she  and  Bridget  McNeil 
had  toiled,  and  took  the  first  train  westward. 
Before  she  started  she  wired  the  commanding 
officer  at  Fort  Sullivan — a  certain  Calmore, 
of  her  husband's  squadron,  to  whom,  with  his 
troop,  the  post  had  been  intrusted  when  the 
main  force  moved  off — when  she  would  ar- 
rive at  the  nearest  railroad  station,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  away  from  the  fort,  and  asked 
that  an  escort  might  be  there  to  take  her 
to  the  post. 

The  whole  undertaking  was  fearfully  risky 


22         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

for  her.  The  journey  by  wagon  would  be 
hard  and  exhausting  for  a  woman  in  time  of 
peace.  What  would  it  be  for  her  in  time  of 
war?  The  Indians  had  been  by  no  means 
crushed,  scarcely  even  subdued.  Fort  Sulli- 
van was  one  of  the  furthest  outposts  of  civili- 
zation on  the  far-flung  frontier.  It  had  been 
several  times  under  fire  that  summer.  Wan- 
dering war  parties  frequently  encircled  it, 
passing  to  the  south  between  it  and  the  rail- 
road. 

Poor  Calmore  was  in  a  terrible  state  of 
anxiety.  He  had  the  post  to  look  after  and 
numberless  refugees,  including  many  women 
and  children.  For  all  this  he  had  too  weak 
a  force  at  best,  and  there  was  but  one  second 
lieutenant  with  him,  and  he  had  to  keep  him 
at  the  post.  Hadden  was  a  gallant  young 
fellow,  but  he  had  only  just  joined  the  regi- 
ment and  had  had  no  experience  in  the  field, 
anyway.  Calmore  could  only  spare  half  a 
platoon  for  this  escort  duty,  a  force  he  recog- 
nized to  be  woefully  inadequate.  If  the  regi- 
ment had  come  back  the  task  would  have  been 
easy,  but  he  did  not  dare  delay  sending  to  the 
station.  Calmore  knew  the  situation  thor- 


WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW  23 

oughly.  He  realized  that  Mrs.  Compton  must 
be  brought  to  the  post  without  delay — the 
sooner  the  better.  The  escort  must  be  there 
when  she  arrived. 

Fortunately  his  force  included  some  men  of 
rare  quality.  Sergeant  McNeil  had  been 
wounded  early  in  the  spring,  and  had  been 
sent  back  to  the  post  to  recuperate.  He  was 
now  completely  recovered.  He  was  a  man 
thoroughly  to  be  trusted,  fearless  at  all  times, 
cautious  when  caution  was  required, — experi- 
enced in  Indian  fighting  and  devoted  to  the 
interests  of  Major  Compton  and  his  wife. 
Calmore  shrewdly  suspected  that  McNeil's 
wife  would  be  with  Mrs.  Compton  and  he 
knew,  if  anything  were  needed,  that  would 
make  the  sergeant  more  dependable  than 
ever.  He  had  given  him  a  score  of  men,  the 
very  pick  of  his  little  command,  and  dis- 
patched him  to  meet  Mrs.  Compton,  caution- 
ing him  on  no  account,  if  it  were  possible  to 
avoid  it,  to  join  battle  with  any  war  party  of 
Indians.  It  happened  also  that  a  small  wagon 
train  had  been  made  up  at  the  railroad  sta- 
tion, and  McNeil  was  directed  to  bring  it  in 
as  well. 


24         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

Such  was  the  situation  that  made  Sergeant 
McNeil  stop  almost  appalled  in  the  pass 
through  which  the  trail  to  Fort  Sullivan  ran 
some  thirty-five  miles  or  more  from  that 
point,  when  he  saw  at  the  other  end  of  it  the 
bright  blanket  and  plumed  head-dress  of  a 
Sioux ! 

As  his  mind  ranged  from  the  warrior  ahead 
to  the  train  behind,  the  sergeant's  face  fell 
and  his  heart  sank.  He  could  have  put 
stout-hearted,  able-bodied,  vigorous  Bridget, 
his  wife,  who  was  equal  to  the  best  of  his 
troopers  in  an  emergency,  on  a  horse.  He 
could  have  put  Molly — still  a  slip  of  a  girl — 
in  the  care  of  some  soldier,  and  if  the  worst 
came  to  the  worst  he  could  have  burned  up 
the  wagons  and  fought  his  way  through,  or 
died  fighting,  reserving  final  bullets  for  wife 
and  daughter.  Any  man  with  a  woman  in- 
trusted to  his  care  would  by  no  possibility 
neglect  that  precaution,  in  those  old  days  in 
the  Far  West,  when  menaced  by  capture  by 
the  Indians. 

But  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Compton  compli- 
cated matters.  Only  her  indomitable  spirit 
and  her  passionate  determination  to  get  to 


WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW  25 

her  husband  had  kept  her  from  collapsing. 
Every  man  in  the  detachment — steady-going, 
hardy,  well-disciplined,  self-respecting  body 
of  veterans  with  only  one  youngster  among 
them — was  devoted  to  Marion  Compton. 
She  had  been  an  angel  of  mercy  and  tender- 
ness to  them  when  they  had  been  wounded 
or  ill.  Her  glorious  voice  had  led  the  singing 
at  many  a  Sunday  service  and  had  delighted 
them  at  many  an  informal  entertainment  at 
the  lonely,  isolated,  frontier  fort.  Although 
she  was  too  good  a  soldier,  both  by  inherit- 
ance and  association,  ever  improperly  to  in- 
terfere between  her  husband  and  his  com- 
mand, her  gentle  influence  had  always  been 
exerted  on  the  side  of  mercy  to  the  soldiers 
in  trouble.  They  knew  that,  too. 

All  these  men  had  welcomed  her  as  a  bride 
and  they  felt  proud  in  the  thought  that  she 
had  come  among  them  again.  They  could  re- 
member how  her  face  had  lighted  up  as  she 
saw  them  sitting  their  horses  back  of  the  sta- 
tion platform  when  she  had  arrived.  They 
could  still  dwell  upon  the  rare  flush  of  color 
and  the  smile  with  which  she  had  acknowl- 
edged their  hearty  cheers.  With  rude  but 


26         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

heartfelt  chivalry  they  were  devoted  to  her. 
They  were  proud  that  she  had  been  commit- 
ted to  them. 

Everything  that  men  could  do  to  make  the 
journey  easy  to  her  had  been  done  by  these 
brave  troopers.  Sometimes  they  had  almost 
carried  the  ambulance,  in  which  she  rested, 
over  the  rough  places.  They  had  eased  the 
vehicle  down  declivities  and  made  smooth 
going  for  her  by  actually  clearing  rocks  and 
stones  from  the  trail  with  their  naked  hands. 
They  had  made  much  slower  progress  on  ac- 
count of  their  care,  but  that  did  not  make  any 
difference.  No  body  of  young  soldiers  could 
have  been  more  at  the  service  of  a  charming 
young  belle  who  had  captured  all  their  hearts 
than  these  veterans  to  Marion  Compton.  To 
be  sure,  she  was  not  much  more  than  a  girl 
herself,  in  spite  of  her  five  years  of  married 
life. 

She  was  fearfully  apprehensive  and  in 
great  mental  anguish  because  of  her  husband, 
of  whom  she  had  received  no  word  since  leav- 
ing Omaha,  save  Sergeant  McNeil's  report 
that  the  command  was  approaching  Fort  Sul- 
livan and  that  Major  Compton  was  still  liv- 


WHAT  THE  SOLDIER  SAW  27 

ing.  She  was  most  profoundly  grateful  to 
these  grim  guardians  and  protectors,  who  held 
her  in  such  tender  and  knightly  regard.  As 
women  should  be,  she  was  a  thing  sacred  to 
man,  especially  then. 

But  it  was  upon  great-hearted,  practical, 
sensible,  efficient  Bridget  McNeil  that  Marion 
Compton  most  depended.  The  elder  woman 
was  indeed  a  very  present  help  in  her  time 
of  need ;  her  unfailing  good  nature,  her  cheer- 
fulness, her  bright  and  pleasing  humor,  her 
self-sacrifice  and  devotion,  the  skill  and  ability 
with  which  she  spared  her  in  every  way, 
brought  comfort  to  the  poor  woman's  tor- 
tured heart  and  wearied  body.  And  like 
every  woman  who  lived  on  the  frontier  in 
those  days,  Bridget  McNeil  had  acquired  an 
experience  and  an  ability  not  to  be  held 
lightly. 

Mrs.  Compton  was  a  slender,  delicate 
woman.  Sometimes  at  night  the  old  Irish 
woman  had  gathered  her  up  in  her  arms  as 
if  she  had  been  a  baby  and  soothed  and  com- 
forted her  in  ways  that  only  women  know  and 
use.  As  for  Molly  McNeil,  she  was  Marion 
Compton 's  devoted  slave.  And  there  was 


28         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

nothing  she,  like  the  men,  would  not  have  done 
for  her. 

The  army  ambulance  was  an  uncomfortable 
vehicle  for  a  sick  and  nervous  woman  even 
under  the  best  conditions.  Marion  Compton 
was  always  glad  when  they  camped  for  the 
night  and  she  could  get  out  of  it.  Those 
nightly  rests  were  very  pleasant.  It  was  cool 
without  being  chilly,  the  stars  shone  with  un- 
wonted brilliance  in  the  clear  air  of  the  high 
upland,  the  fire  threw  pleasant  lights  upon  the 
groups  gathered  hard  by.  Sometimes  Mrs. 
Compton  sang  to  them,  although  she  found  it 
hard  and  naturally  was  not  in  good  voice. 
The  men  enjoyed  it  exceedingly  and  Molly 
joined  in,  and  Bridget  and  sometimes  the  men 
themselves  sang,  too,  or  tried  it. 


n 


WHEREIN  THE  OLD  SCOUT  JOINS 
THE  LITTLE  COMMAND 

SERGEANT  McNEIL,  having  quieted  his 
horse,  at  last  threw  up  his  hand  and 
beckoned.     The    canyon   made   a   little 
bend  back  of  him  and  the  wagon  train  was 
not  in  sight  from  the  broad  opening  at  the 
further  end,  where  he  had  seen  the  Sioux. 
Corporal  Jackson,  riding  with  the  men,  saw 
the  sergeant's  signal.     Divining  that  some- 
thing was  wrong,  he  promptly  halted  the  train 
and  trotted  forward  to  join  his  superior. 

" What's  up!"  he  asked,  saluting  with  his 
hand,  for  McNeil  stood  high  in  the  regiment 
and  every  man  was  as  glad  to  serve  under  him 
and  was  as  proud  of  him  as  of  Major  Compton 
or  of  Allenby,  the  old  Civil  War  general,  in 
command.  For  answer  McNeil  pointed  ahead. 
Jackson  followed  with  his  eyes  his  superior's 
index  finger.  His  lips  broke  into  a  startled 


SO         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

exclamation.  Where  McNeil  had  seen  one  In- 
dian the  two  men  now  saw  a  score. 

The  canyon  opened  widely  from  the  point 
where  the  soldiers  stood,  and  far  beyond  its 
passage  through  the  foothills  lay  the  rolling 
country,  watered  here  and  there,  the  lines  of 
the  brooks  indicated  by  dusty  undergrowth 
and  stunted  trees,  which  extended  from  the 
range  to  Fort  Sullivan.  The  Indians  were 
coming  from  the  north,  and  as  the  two  sol- 
diers watched,  more  and  more  of  them  came 
into  view  until  the  whole  end  of  the  canyon 
was  filled  with  them.  They  were  in  violent 
motion  and  commotion,  galloping  back  and 
forth,  raising  clouds  of  dust  above  them. 

6 ' Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Jackson.  "Look 
at  'em  comin'." 

"There  must  be  five  hundred  av  them," 
muttered  McNeil,  thoughtfully  biting  his  grey 
mustache. 

"What  in  heaven's  name  can  we  do!" 

The  old  sergeant  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  phwhat  we  can't  do,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"What's  that?" 

"Fight  our  way  through  that  bunch." 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       31 

"Of  course  not,"  answered  Jackson,  "and 
there's—  —"he  stopped. 

"The  women  an'  the  child,"  said  the  ser- 
geant. 

"Have  they  seen  us?" 

"For  sure.  I  don't  give  'em  credit  fer 
bein'  any  blinder  than  I  am,  an'  I  saw  wan 
five  minutes  ago  up  against  this  yellow  rock. 
I  guess  he  saw  me,  too,  all  right." 

" What's  that?"  cried  Jackson,  suddenly 
pointing. 

"It  may  be  a  thrick,"  said  the  sergeant, 
seizing  his  rifle.  ' '  Get  your  gun  out,  Jackson, 
an' " 

"It's  no  trick,"  cried  the  corporal,  never- 
theless obeying  the  order.  "That's  a  white 
man." 

The  two  soldiers,  standing  high  upon  the 
trail,  saw  the  whole  scene  as  if  it  were  a  pic- 
ture. About  a  hundred  feet  from  the  Indians 
a  figure  on  a  horse  suddenly  galloped  madly 
up  the  canyon  toward  them.  Apparently  the 
horse  and  his  rider  had  been  hiding  in  the 
canyon,  and  the  Indians  had  caught  sight  of 
them,  and  they  were  making  a  mad  dash  for 
life.  The  rider  was  bending  low  over  the 


32         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

pommel  of  his  saddle,  the  horse  was  a  good 
one,  and  he  was  being  urged  to  the  last  pos- 
sibility of  his  speed.  Some  hundreds  of  feet 
behind  him  a  score  or  more  of  Indians  fol- 
lowed, also  at  top  speed  of  their  ponies.  They 
had  discarded  their  blankets,  but  their  long- 
feathered  bonnets  streamed  out  behind  them 
like  plumes  on  knights  of  old.  Their  naked, 
painted  bodies  gleamed  in  the  afternoon  sun- 
light as  they  shook  their  weapons  high  in  the 
air.  Although  they  urged  their  horses  fran- 
tically with  wild  yells  which  could  be  heard 
faintly  by  the  men  up  the  canyon,  they  were 
dropping  behind.  Eealizing  this,  the  leader 
of  the  pursuit  suddenly  advanced  his  rifle 
and  fired.  The  others  followed  his  example 
and  the  canyon  echoed  and  reverberated  with 
the  crackle  of  Winchesters  and  Remingtons. 

Somehow  or  other  the  Indians  were  always 
well  armed,  much  better  even  than  the  sol- 
diers. 

"It  couldn't  be  a  thrick,"  said  the  sergeant. 
"They  can't  pass  us  here.  Jackson,  ride 
back  to  the  thrain  an'  bring  up  four  av  the 
best  shots.  Tell  the  others  to  git  ready  an' 
we  can  check  'em  here  for  a  while,  anyway. 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       33 

Begorry,  they  Ve  got  him,"  cried  the  sergeant 
suddenly.  "Wait,"  he  said,  catching  at  the 
bridle  of  the  other  man's  horse. 

"I  told  you  it  wasn't  a  trick,"  said  Jack- 
son. "He's  down." 

"But  he's  up;  look!" 

A  bullet  had  killed  the  fugitive's  gallant 
horse  and  he  had  been  hurled  over  the  ani- 
mal's head,  but  he  was  up  on  his  feet  in  a 
moment.  With  shouts  of  triumph,  the  In- 
dians, who  had  momentarily  checked  their 
pursuit  at  the  sight  of  the  disaster,  started 
forward  again.  To  run  was  impossible. 
There  was  but  one  way  of  safety.  The  man 
coolly  presented  his  own  Winchester.  The 
soldiers  saw  the  puff  of  smoke  before  they 
heard  the  report,  and  the  leading  Indian 
pitched  out  of  his  saddle  stone  dead.  The  In- 
dians returned  the  fire,  but  excitement  im- 
paired their  accuracy,  and  the  fugitive  stood 
unharmed,  firing  rapidly.  He  was  a  rare  shot, 
for  each  second  brought  down  a  horse  or  an 
Indian.  The  pursuit  was  checked  and  then 
halted,  although  the  minute  the  man  turned 
his  back  to  run  it  would  be  resumed. 

"I  think  we -11  ride  down  a  little,  Jackson,/' 


34          A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

said  Sergeant  McNeil  grimly,  "an'  give  that 
man  a  chance.  He  looks  to  me  like  old  Mar- 
nette.  He's  worth  half  a  platoon  to  us  if  it 
is.  Come  on." 

The  two  men  trotted  rapidly  down  the  de- 
scending trail.  The  Indians  saw  them  and 
heard  them,  too,  for  although  it  was  a  long 
shot  and  both  men  missed,  the  soldiers  pre- 
sented their  carbines  and  fired  down  the 
valley,  whereat  the  Indians  at  once  drew  off. 
The  fugitive,  keenly  alive  to  everything  that 
was  happening,  now  turned  and  ran  up  the 
canyon.  There  was  more  excitement  among 
the  Indians  far  beyond,  at  the  bend  of  the  big 
rift.  Their  numbers  appeared  to  be  increas- 
ing, but  they  did  not  venture  on  any  advance 
just  then.  In  a  short  time  the  fugitive  joined 
the  soldiers. 

"I  knew  it,"  cried  McNeil,  reaching  down 
over  the  saddle  and  clasping  the  new-comer's 
hand.  "  'Tis  ould  Marnette.  Begorry,  I'm 
glad  to  see  you. ' ' 

"Well,  sergeant,"  said  the  old  scout,  "I 
can  well  believe  that,  for  I  reckon  you're  go- 
in'  to  need  every  man  you  can  git  a  hold  of 
afore  you  gits  out  of  this  yere  trouble." 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       35 

The  sergeant  nodded.  There  was  no  dis- 
puting the  truth  of  that  assertion. 

"Phwhat's  that  bunch  bey  ant  there !"  he 
asked  briefly. 

"Sioux  and  Cheyennes." 

"Whose  band  I" 

"Dull  Knife's,  I  reckon." 

"How  did  you  happen  to  run  into  them?" 

"I  didn't;  they  ran  into  me,"  said  old  Mar- 
nette,  smiling  grimly. 

"I  see,"  said  the  sergeant. 

' '  I  was  over  at  Fort  Sullivan.  Jest  dropped 
in  to  see  how  things  was  gittin'  along.  Cap- 
tain Calmore  hadn't  nobody  but  me  to  send. 
You  was  so  long  a-comin'  back  that  he  got 
kind-a  anxious,  an'  since  I  hadn't  nothin'  par- 
tikler  on  hand,  I  volunteered  to  go  out  an' 
look  you  up  an'  do  what  I  could." 

"Didn't  the  other  throops  av  the  regiment 
git  back  yit?"  asked  the  old  sergeant  most 
anxiously. 

"Not  yet;  they're  expected  to-day,  ac- 
cordin'  to  runners  that  hev  come  in." 

"Did  you  hear  anything  about  Major  Comp- 
tonyit?" 

"He  was  alive  when  the  scouts  left  the  com- 


36         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

mand,  but  that  was  about  all.  Is  his  wife 
back  there?" 

"Yes,  she's  there.  That's  why  we're  so 
slow,"  answered  the  sergeant,  "an'  now  we've 
got  to  fight.  Well,  let's  go  back  to  the  thrain. ' ' 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Beyant  the  bend,  yonder." 

"Have  you  got  any  likker  on  you,  ser- 
geant?" asked  Marnette  suddenly. 

"No,"  answered  McNeil  tersely,  "I  don't 
dhrink  nothin'  at  all  when  I'm  in  command, 
an'  phwhat  we  have  is  in  the  kapin'  of  Bridget 
in  the  wagon." 

' '  Say,  Marnette,  you  look  kind-a  pale, ' '  said 
Jackson. 

"Well,  you  see,  I've  lost  a  leettle  blood. 
I've  got  a  scratch  jest  yere,  along  my  ribs, 
an' " 

In  a  second  Jackson  was  off  his  horse. 

"Mount,"  he  said,  "I'll  help  you." 

"I  can  walk  all  right." 

"Don't  talk,"  said  McNeil,  "Jackson's 
young  an'  light  av  foot.  We  must  git  back  to 
the  wagons  an'  decide  on  phwhat 's  to  be 
done." 

It  did  not  take  them  long  to  reach  the  wagon 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       37 

train,  the  men  of  which,  under  the  command 
of  Corporal  Schmidt,  the  junior  non-com, 
with  the  detachment,  were  in  a  state  of  great 
excitement.  Molly  McNeil  was  dancing  about 
in  front  of  the  ambulance  talking  eagerly  to 
young  Danny  Meagher,  who  was  only  a  boy  of 
eighteen  himself,  and  Bridget  and  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton  were  both  peering  anxiously  out  from 
under  the  canvas  cover,  Mrs.  Compton,  as 
usual,  supported  by  the  other  woman. 

In  a  last  glance  as  he  rode  up,  McNeil  could 
see  at  least  five  hundred  Sioux  and  Cheyennes 
in  the  mouth  of  the  canyon  back  of  him  with 
a  big  pony  herd. 

"Marnette!"  cried  Mrs.  Compton  as  the 
old  plainsman  edged  Jackson's  horse  around 
by  the  side  of  the  ambulance,  "you  have  come 
from  the  post?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Marnette,  who 
was  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  her  husband 
and  herself.  "The  troops  ain't  in  yet,"  con- 
tinued the  scout,  "but  we  had  a  message  from 
'em.  They'd  ought  to  git  to  Fort  Sullivan  to- 
day." 

"And  my  husband?" 

"He  was  still  alive  when  the  message  came 


38         A  BABY  OP  THE  FRONTIER 

in,  an'  he  sent  word  that  he  was  feelin'  pretty 
cheerful. ' ' 

" Thank  God!"  said  the  woman.  "Let  us 
hasten  on,  sergeant. " 

"I'm  thinkin'  we'll  have  to  shtay  a  bit 
where  we  are,  ma'am,"  answered  McNeil  in 
his  rich  brogue.  "You  see,  there's  only  wan 
way  to  git  to  Fort  Sullivan,  an'  the  Sioux  are 
down  the  canyon  in  foorce  under  old  Dull 
Knife,  who's  sharper  than  his  name.  But 
don't  fear,  we'll  hold  'em  off  an'  manage  to  git 
word  to  the  post  somehow,  an'  it'll  mean  jist 
a  little  delay.  Eh,  men?" 

The  soldiers  broke  into  cheers. 

"Seddon,"  continued  McNeil,  smiling  with 
grim  pleasure  at  the  spirit  of  the  men,  "ride 
for'ard  to  the  bend  av  the  pass  an'  kape  an 
eye  on  them  Injuns.  Lemme  know  if  they 
make  any  move  to  come  up  the  canyon. 
Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Compton,  if  you'll  let  Brid- 
get here,  who's  as  good  as  a  dochter,  look  at 
Marnette " 

"Have  you  been  wounded?"  exclaimed 
Marion  Compton. 

"Jest  a  scratch  in  the  side,  ma'am,"  said 
Marnette.  "They  got  my  broncho,  but  they 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       39 

paid  for  him,  an'  they  nearly  got  me, 
too." 

"Bridget,  do  what  you  can  quickly, "  said 
Mrs.  Compton  immediately. 

There  was  a  medicine  chest  in  the  ambu- 
lance. Bridget  got  it  out  and  busied  herself 
with  Marnette,  who  submitted  with  much  re- 
luctance and  blushing  protest  to  the  baring  of 
his  side. 

"  I  ain  't  used  to  this, ' '  he  protested.  ' 1 1  jest 
washes  'em  out  an'  gives  'em  a  lick  of  axle 
grease  an'  lets  'em  go  when  I  git  hit, 
gener  'ly. ' ' 

"Now,"  said  Bridget,  "be  quiet.  I'm  goin' 
to  hurt  you.  'Tis  a  nashty  score  an'  'tis  an 
ugly  wound  an'  you've  lost  much  blood.  Here, 
dhrink  this." 

' '  Me — eh  ? ' '  said  Marnette  as  he  drained  the 
cup.  "I'd  be  willin'  to  be  shot  in  the  other 
side  for  another  taste  of  that." 

"It's  no  more  you'll  git,"  said  Bridget. 
"We  may  be  after  nadin'  all  we  got  fer  others 
that  won't  git  off  so  aisy." 

While  this  little  colloquy  had  gone  on,  Mc- 
Neil, Jackson,  and  Schmidt  had  engaged  in  a 
rapid  discussion. 


40         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"We  can't  go  for'ard,"  said  McNeil. 

"We  can't  stay  here,  either, "  said  Jackson. 
"If  they  should  get  over  on  that  other  side  of 
the  canyon  they  could  pick  us  off  one  by  one, 
it's  so  narrow  here." 

"You  remember  dot  place  ve  shtopped  for 
dinner  to-day — dot  high  shelf  near  de  brook 
ver  de  canyon  videns  out  und  dere  iss  a  broad 
field  on  de  odder  side?"  asked  the  junior  cor- 
poral. 

"Perfectly,  Dutch,"  said  the  sergeant. 

' 1 1  adwise  dot  ve  go  back  dere  und  make  our 
shtand." 

"Strikes  me  your  advice  is  pretty  good, 
Schmidt,"  said  McNeil. 

"I  haff  seen  some  fighting  in  de  old  coun- 
try," said  the  German  phlegmatically ;  "so 
long  as  ve  haff  ammunition  und  somedings  to 
eat  und  drink  we  hold  dem  off  dere." 

"I  believe  you,  my  boy,"  said  McNeil. 
' '  There 's  plenty  av  ammunition  in  the  wagons, 
an'  food,  too,  but  it's  the  dhrink." 

"Veil,  dere  ain't  no  shprings  in  dese  vails. 
Ve  got  to  git  it  out  of  de  creek  verever  ve  are." 

"Phwhat  do  you  think  about  it,  Jackson?" 

"I  think  Dutch  is  right." 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       41 

4 'Oh,  Marnette,"  cried  McNeil  to  the  scout, 
observing  that  Bridget  had  finished  her  task. 

"Well!" 

"Do  yon  remember  that  place  abont  five 
miles  back  up  the  canyon,  where  the  Big 
Meadows  are,  an'  the  place  broadens  out  to 
about  a  mile  wide  f ' ' 

"Do  you  mean  where  that  trail  runs  into  a 
rocky  shelf  over  the  brook  on  the  north  side  1 ' ' 
asked  the  scout. 

' '  I  do.  Phwhat  do  you  think  of  it  as  a  place 
for  a  camp?  Can  we  hould  it?" 

i  l  Sure, ' '  answered  the  old  frontiersman  con- 
fidently. "It's  about  the  best  place  in  the 
canyon.  We  can  keep  'em  back  at  the  bend 
yonder  for  a  while,  but  the  canyon  here  is  so 
narrer  that  they'd  git  over  on  the  other  side 
an'  that'd  be  the  end  of  us.  Up  at  the  Big 
Meadows  there's  no  way  to  git  us  except  by 
chargin'  right  at  us,  an'  I  guess  we  can  hold 
'em  off  there." 

"How  are  you  feelin'?" 

"Kind-a  stiff." 

"He's  lost  about  a  quart  of  blood.  Look  at 
him,"  said  Bridget.  "His  side's  wet  clear 
down  to  his  boots." 


42         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"I'm  good  for  a  lot  of  Sioux  and  Cheyennes, 
nevertheless,"  said  Marnette,  smiling. 

"Oh,  father,  can  I  shoot  a  gun  if  there's  a 
battle?"  cried  Molly. 

"You  little  shpalpeen,"  said  McNeil,  smil- 
ing at  her. 

"She's  a  chip  av  the  old  block,  McNeil,"  in- 
terrupted his  wife  quickly,  "an'  if  the  worrst 
comes  to  the  worrst  she  can  handle  a  carbine, 
as  I  can  meself,  wid  any  of  'em." 

"Danny  said  I  could  shoot  his  gun  some 
time." 

"If  Trooper  Meagher  lets  any  female  child, 
or  male  one  ayther  for  that  matter,  git  hould 
av  his  carbine,  I'll  have  him  before  a  court. 
Do  ye  hear  that,  Danny?" 

"I  hear  it,  sor." 

"Well,  it  goes." 

"Men,  what  have  you  decided?"  asked  Mrs. 
Compton,  who  had  been  an  interested  listener. 

"Ma'am,  we'll  have  to  go  back  up  the  can- 
yon to  the  place  we  have  agreed  upon,  where 
we  can  hould  them  off,  an'  then  we'll  thry  to 
git  word  to  Captain  Calmore  or  whoever  is 
at  the  post  to  come  an'  fetch  us  in,"  answered 
the  sergeant  deferentially. 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       43 

Marion  Compton  was  experienced  enough 
and  intelligent  enough  to  understand  the  sit- 
uation, but  her  heart  sank  for  many  reasons, 
yet  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  She 
had  an  impulse  to  urge  the  sergeant  to  press 
on  to  the  post  and  try  to  cut  a  way  through  the 
Indians,  but  she  knew  that  her  urging  would 
be  in  vain,  and  that  it  ought  to  be  in  vain. 
McNeil  was  responsible  for  the  safety  of  the 
party,  and  he  was  man  enough  to  assume  his 
responsibility,  soldier  enough  to  discharge  it 
unflinchingly,  and  not  even  her  appeals  could 
move  him  from  what  he  decided  was  the 
proper  course  and  of  which  her  own  intelli- 
gence now  approved. 

"It  won't  be  long,  ma'am,"  said  Bridget 
consolingly. 

"Of  course  not,"  said  the  sergeant,  taking 
his  cue  from  his  wife.  "We'll  send  out  a  mes- 
senger to-night,  an'  by  day  afther  to-morrow 
it '11  be  all  over." 

Day  after  to-morrow!  Her  heart  fell. 
Could  she  wait  that  long?  Mrs.  Compton 
looked  piteously  at  Bridget,  who  was  standing 
by  the  ambulance.  The  latter  put  out  her 
hand  and  patted  her  mistress  gently. 


*4          A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Thrust  in  God  an'  the  saints,  an'  me, 
ma'am,"  she  whispered,  knowing  full  well 
what  was  in  the  poor  lady's  mind.  "I'll  see 
you  through,  wid  the  help  av  them  others." 

"Sergeant,"  came  the  voice  of  Seddon 
sharply  as  he  turned  his  head  around. 
"They're  moving  up  the  canyon." 

"Corporal  Schmidt,"  said  McNeil  instantly, 
"take  four  files  an'  go  to  the  bend  av  the  can- 
yon, join  Seddon,  take  command  av  the  squad, 
put  your  harses  back  av  the  bend  here,  an' 
take  cover,  hould  the  Indians  in  check  for  an 
hour  or  until  four  o  'clock—  '  he  peered  at  his 
old  silver  watch  a  moment — "by  that  time 
we'll  be  back  in  the  meadows.  Do  you  under- 
stand!" 

"I  understant,"  said  Schmidt,  saluting  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  formal  order.  * l  Can  I 
haff  any  man  I  vant  ? ' ' 

"Certainly,  take  your  pick." 

"Take  me,  take  me,"  shouted  one  man  after 
another  to  Schmidt,  who  waved  them  back. 

He  selected  two  Germans,  an  Irishman,  and 
an  American — a  veteran  of  the  Civil  War. 

"Any  more  orders?" 

"None.    Be  off  wid  you,"  said  McNeil. 


THE  SCOUT  JOINS  THE  COMMAND       45 

So  Schmidt  and  the  little  squadron  trotted 
down  the  canyon  toward  the  bend.  Fortu- 
nately the  place  on  the  trail  where  they  had 
halted  was  wide  enough  to  turn  the  wagons. 
Everybody  worked  with  speed,  but  quietly 
and  without  confusion.  Sending  Jackson 
ahead  with  half  the  men  and  following  himself 
with  the  other  half,  McNeil  started  his  com- 
mand up  the  canyon  again.  There  was  no 
time  for  care,  and  they  went  ahead  as  fast  as 
they  could.  As  they  pressed  on  they  heard 
the  crackling  of  the  carbines  of  Schmidt's  de- 
tachment, which  gave  evidence  that  they  were 
engaged  and  holding  their  own. 


in 


HOW  THEY  PREPARED  TO  DEFEND 
THE  WOMEN  AND  CHILDREN 

THE  place  they  had  chosen  was  admirably 
adapted  for  defence.  The  trail  ran 
into  a  broad  shelf,  which  had  been  hol- 
lowed out  of  the  mountain  wall  by  some  pre- 
historic torrent.  The  rocky  wall,  which  was 
concave,  was  deeply  recessed  so  they  would  be, 
in  a  measure,  protected  from  an  enfilading 
fire  when  within  its  depths.  If  they  could  get 
to  it,  the  shallow  brook  rapidly  descending  the 
canyon,  whirling  and  brawling  over  its  stony 
bed,  would  furnish  them  with  an  abundance 
of  water.  Beyond  the  main  stream  of  the 
brook  lay  a  broad  stretch  of  grass-covered 
level  ground,  perhaps  a  mile  in  width  and  two 
miles  or  more  in  length.  It  was  well  watered, 
and  on  the  farther  side  groves  of  small  pines 
grew  thickly.  The  opposite  wall  of  the  canyon 
rose  gently.  This  fertile  and  lovely  meadow 
had  been  the  site  of  a  flourishing  ranch  be- 

46 


PREPARING  THE  DEFENCE  47 

fore  the  Indian  troubles.  The  ranch  owner 
had  left  it,  the  buildings  had  been  burned  in 
some  foray. 

The  rock-strewn  shelf  rose  with  the  trail  for 
twenty  feet  or  more  above  the  brook  and  mea- 
dow. Its  extent  was  limited,  of  course.  There 
was  no  place  for  the  horses  of  the  troopers 
and  the  mules  that  drew  the  wagons  and  the 
ambulance.  It  went  awfully  against  the  grain, 
but  they  had  to  be  abandoned  to  the  Indians. 
They  were  unhitched  and  unsaddled  and  driven 
down  across  the  brook  into  the  meadow.  Tears 
stood  in  the  eyes  of  some  of  these  hard-bitten 
rough  riders  as  they  parted  from  their  horses, 
but  there  was  absolutely  no  help  for  it. 

Working  frantically,  they  dismounted  the 
wagons  and  arranged  the  beds  around  the 
outer  edge  of  the  shelf  to  make  a  sort  of  rude 
entrenchment,  piling  the  running  gear  on  top 
or  in  the  interspaces  as  a  protection  against  a 
possible  attempt  to  rush  the  barricade.  The 
supplies  they  carried  on  their  persons  were 
almost  exhausted,  but  under  the  circumstances 
McNeil  broke  open  a  wagon  loaded  with  food 
and  supplies  without  hesitation  in  order  to  as- 
sure to  each  man  food,  an  extra  rifle,  and  all 


48         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

the  ammuntion  necessary.  And  he  delighted 
Molly's  heart  by  routing  out  for  her  a  light 
Eemington,  the  private  property  of  one  of  the 
officers,  and  a  small  revolver. 

"Jist  put  a  rifle  an'  a  revolver  handy  for 
me  an '  the  missis, ' '  said  old  Bridget.  ' '  I  don 't 
expect  to  join  in  the  fightin',  but  it  may  come 
in  handy.  For  you  know  I've  got  more  things 
to  do  than  any  av  ye,  for  I'll  look  afther  the 
wounded.  I've  got  to  tend  to  Mrs.  Compton, 
too,  an'  I'm  thinkin'  that  this  detachment  will 
be  larger  than  it  is  now  before  very  long  if  we 
don't  git  out  in  a  hurry,"  she  said  sagely  to 
her  husband. 

"To  git  out  in  a  hurry  is  impossible,"  said 
the  sergeant.  "We  may  never  git  out  at  all, 
at  all,  an'  if  we  don't" — he  suddenly  turned 
to  his  wife  and  kissed  her  before  them  all — 
"you've  been  a  good  wife  to  a  poor  soldier." 

"An'  it's  a  proud  woman  I  am  to  have  ye 
say  those  worrds,  Tim  McNeil,"  said  Bridget, 
her  weather-beaten  face  flushing  as  the  men, 
who 'had  seen  everything,  laughed  and  cheered. 

"All  av  us  will  have  to  do  the  best  we  can," 
said  the  sergeant.  "We've  dismounted  the 
ambulance  an*  we've  made  Mrs.  Compton  as 


PREPARING  THE  DEFENCE  49 

comfortable  an'  as  private  as  we  can  beneath 
the  canvas  top,  though  'tis  a  good  targit 
against  the  dark  wall." 

"I  want  to  see  Sergeant  McNeil,"  said  Mrs. 
Compton  from  the  covered  ambulance  body, 
which  had  been  placed  like  a  tent  in  the  safest 
corner  of  the  nook  nearest  the  wall.  Kocks 
had  been  piled  about  it  to  protect  it  from 
chance  shots. 

"Here  I  am,  ma'am,"  said  the  big  soldier, 
presenting  himself  at  the  entrance. 

"Sergeant,"  said  Mrs.  Compton,  extending 
her  hand,  "whatever  happens  I  want  you  to 
know  how  much  I  appreciate  you.  I  think  you 
have  all  been  true  and  devoted  soldiers  and 
comrades,  and  I  want  you  to  tell  the  others, 
too.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  will  come  out  of 
this  alive,  but  whether  I  do  or  not  I  want  you 
to  understand  how  grateful  I  am  and— 

"Nobody  an'  nothin'  will  ever  harrm  you 
as  long  as  there's  a  man  in  the  troop  livin', 
ma  'am. ' ' 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  woman,  "but  I  am 
very  weak  and  ill- 
She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  tear-stained, 
anxious   face.     McNeil    stared  down  at  her 


50         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

awkwardly  but  compassionately.  He  under- 
stood. He  bent  over  the  hand  she  reached  up 
to  him  as  she  half  reclined  in  the  wagon  and 
kissed  it  like  a  knight  of  old. 

"Why,  we'd  all  die  for  you  an'  the  major," 
he  said  impulsively  in  profound  pity. 

"I  know,"  said  the  woman,  smiling  faintly 
as  he  withdrew  and  got  to  work  again. 

With  soldierly  precaution  the  sergeant  now 
directed  that  every  receptacle  that  could  hold 
a  drop  of  water  must  be  filled.  There  might 
come  a  time  when  it  would  be  impossible  to 
get  it,  and  water  would  be  as  precious  as 
though  each  drop  were  a  diamond. 

"Well,  I  guess  we've  done  about  everything 
we  can,"  he  said  to  Corporal  Jackson  at  last, 
looking  around  his  little  band  and  raising  his 
voice  so  that  all  could  hear.  "We've  got  to 
protect  Mrs.  Compton — to  say  nothin'  av 
Molly  an'  Bridget — to  the  very  last.  I  know 
I  can  depend  on  all  you  men.  I  ain't  good  at 
spache-inakin',  men,  but  when  they  come  up 
we'll  all  give  'em  fits.  Eh,  bullies!" 

"You  bet  your  sweet  life  we  will,"  roared 
Jackson  as  the  detachment  broke  into  three 
cheers. 


PREPARING  THE  DEFENCE  51 

"We  can  hould  this  place  for  some  time," 
continued  the  sergeant,  "but  somebody's  got 
to  carry  word  to  Fort  Sullivan.  Who  11  volun- 
teer?" 

"I  reckon  that'll  be  my  job,"  said  Marnette 
promptly. 

"  'Tis  you  that  can't  do  it,"  said  the  ser- 
geant decisively.  "You're  wounded  already. 
Your  wound '11  hurt  worse  to-night  than  it 
does  to-day.  'Tis  got  to  be  a  well  man  that 
thries  that  dangerous  job." 

"I  reckon  that's  so,"  admitted  the  old 
plainsman  reluctantly. 

"Who'll  volunteer,  laads?" 

Every  man  in  the  half  platoon  jumped  for- 
ward, clamorous. 

"Lemme  go,  sergeant,"  said  young  Danny 
Meagher.  "I'm  the  lightest  an'  fleetest  av 
foot.  I  can  outrun  any  man  in  the  regiment, 
an'  although  I'm  the  youngest,  I  know  the 
country  like  a  book.  I'm  smaller  than  the  rest 
of  'em,  too,  an'  'tis  aisy  it'll  be  to  hide  meself. 
I  can  climb  the  rocks  quicker  an'  I  don't  be- 
lave  there's  a  man  who  can  shoot  straighter 
or  ride  fashter  or  who'll  thry  harder,  if  I  do 
say  it  meself." 


52         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Phwhat  do  you  think  av  the  bhoy,  Jack- 
son?" asked  McNeil. 

"I'm  in  favor  of  lettin'  the  kid  try  it.  As 
he  says,  he's  quicker  than  any  of  us.  Take 
most  of  us  off  our  horses  and  we're  no  good 
at  all.  We  ain't  cut  out  for  dough-boys  or 
beetle-crushers.  He  can  shoot.  He  knows  the 
country.  He's  got  the  nerve,  too,"  said  the 
corporal  decisively. 

"Oh,  let  Danny  go,  father,"  cried  Molly, 
jumping  up  and  down  in  her  excitement,  for 
she  was  having  the  time  of  her  sweet  young 
life. 

"And  has  it  come  to  this  that  a  vet 'ran 
sarrgeant  av  harse  in  the  sarvice  of  the  United 
States  has  got  to  take  counsel  wid  a  shlip  av 
a  girl!" 

"Out  av  the  mouths  of  babes  an'  sucklin's, 
the  good  Book  says,"  interposed  Bridget 
smilingly. 

"An'  av  women,  too,  God  save  us,"  laughed 
McNeil. 

"Well,  many  a  man  would  be  better  off  if 
he  took  the  advice  av  his  wife,"  retorted 
Bridget.  "You  bachelors  in  the  throop  don't 
know  that  yit." 


PREPARING  THE  DEFENCE  63 

"But  'tis  true,  jist  the  same,"  said  McNeil. 
"Well,  Danny,  you  can  go.  'Tis  a  heavy  re- 
sponsibility to  put  on  a  laad,  but  somehow  I 
kind-a  think  you'll  manage  it." 

"I  will  that,  sor,  or  be  a  dead  man." 

"And  if  you're  a  dead  man,  don't  you  never 
come  back  to  tell  us  you've  failed,"  said  the 
sergeant  gravely. 

"I  will  not." 

"I'm  not  sendin'  you  out  to  git  killed  at  all, 
but  to  git  through. ' ' 

"Have  you  any  orders,  sor?" 

"Only  to  git  there  an'  tell  Captain  Calmore, 
or  whoever  is  commandin'  the  post,  where  we 
are,  an'  that  they'd  better  hurry." 

"An',  Danny,"  said  Bridget,  "a  worrd  in 
your  ear.  Tell  them  to  send  a  dochter  wid  the 
rescue  party,  an'  tell  him  to  come  quick,  for 
the  love  av  hiven." 

"I  will  that,  ma'am." 

"Now  God  bless  you,  for  a  brave  broth  av  a 
bhoy,"  said  the  good-hearted  Irishwoman, 
bending  over  and  giving  him  a  hearty  kiss, 
with  which  Danny  blushed  fiercely  and  the 
men  laughed  gaily.  "Perhaps,"  continued 
the  undaunted  Bridget,  "Mrs.  Compton  will 


54         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

be  afther  sendin'  a  message.  Come  over  here 
an'  we'll  see." 

"You  are  going  to  try  to  get  to  Fort  Sulli- 
van, Danny?"  asked  Mrs.  Compton. 

"No,  ma'am,  I  ain't  go  in'  to  thry  it,  I'm 
goin'  to  do  it." 

"When  do  you  start?"  she  asked,  smiling  at 
his  bold  answer. 

"  Jist  as  soon  as  it  gits  dark  enough  to  hide 


1  Tell  my  husband  to  keep  up  his  spirits  and 
not  to  give  way.  That  I  will  soon  be  with  him, 
and  that  I'm  all  right — yet,"  added  Mrs. 
Compton  softly. 

"Mother,  may  I  kiss  him,  too?"  asked  Molly 
as  Danny  came  away  from  the  ambulance. 

"  'Twould  be  ondacent,"  said  Mrs.  McNeil, 
laughing  in  spite  of  herself. 

But  Meagher,  taking  the  initiative  and  re- 
sponsibility, lifted  Molly,  who  was  only  a  little 
girl  in  spite  of  her  fourteen  years,  high  up  in 
the  air  and  kissed  her  bravely  on  the  cheek 
before  he  set  her  down. 

"Well,  now,"  said  Sergeant  McNeil, 
"afther  all  this  affectin'  an'  tender  parting 
which  as  a  husband  an'  a  father  I  might  ob- 


PREPARING  THE  DEFENCE  55 

ject  to — only  I  won't — perhaps  you'd  better 
make  your  preparations.  Have  you  any 
plan?" 

"None,  except  to  climb  the  wall  as  soon  as 
it's  dark  enough,  an'  then  God  help  me." 

"Take  plenty  of  ammunition,"  said  the  ser- 
geant. 

"Best  take  my  advice,"  said  Marnette,  "an* 
don't  travel  too  heavy.  It's  not  so  much 
fightin'  as  strategy  that's  goin'  to  git  you 
through. ' ' 

"That's  a  good  worrd  from  long  expayri- 
ence,"  assented  McNeil. 

"I  suggest  that  you  strike  across  country 
until  you  git  to  Black  Creek  an'  then  f oiler 
that  down  until  you  reach  the  Big  Buffalo 
Wallers.  You  know  that  place?"  continued 
Marnette. 

"I  know.    'Tis  jist  beyond  the  big  spring." 

"Exactly.  You'll  find  plenty  of  cover  till 
you  git  there.  After  that — well,  if  the  Lord 
don't  cover  you  I  don't  know  what  will.  Don't 
you  risk  nothin'  by  takin'  a  shot  at  no  red- 
skins, neither.  We're  all  pullin'  hard  for 
you." 

"Here  comes  Schmidt  an'  his  detachment," 


56         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

said  one  of  the  men  suddenly  as  five  men  came 
galloping  up  the  trail  ahead  of  the  corporal, 
who  insisted  on  bringing  up  the  rear  of  his 
small  command. 

"They're  comin ',"  said  Seddon,  in  the  lead, 
as  he  reined  in  his  horse  outside  the  impro- 
vised entrenchment.  "There  ain't  so  many 
comin '  as  there  was,  though, ' '  he  added,  laugh- 
ing. 

"I  haff  de  honor  to  report  dot  I  haff  brought 
back  my  detachment  intact,  und  ve  haff  ac- 
counted for  several  of  de  enemy,"  said 
Schmidt,  saluting  gravely  with  his  usual 
punctilious  care  in  his  old-world  way. 

The  sergeant  smiled  grimly  as  he  acknowl- 
edged the  courtesy  of  the  slow-going  but  hard- 
fighting  subordinate. 

"Have  your  men  turn  their  harses  loose, 
corp'ral,  and  then  come  in  here.  What  do  you 
think  of  these  preparations'?" 

"It  iss  fine.  Ve  can  hold  diss  place  for  vun 
long  time  midout  no  doubt,  und  ve  vill  haff  to 
do  it,  for  if  dere  is  vun  Injun  dere  iss  five 
hundred,  und  dey  haff  dere  womans  und  dere 
children  und  dere  herds  along  mit  'em,"  was 
the  deliberate  but  not  unexpected  answer. 


PREPARING  THE  DEFENCE  57 

"You  had  plenty  of  time  to  count  them?" 
asked  McNeil. 

"Ve  had  speech  mit  'em." 

"What?" 

"Dey  sent  out  a  vite  flag  und  ve  met  de 
chief.  He  said  if  ve  give  up  de  vagons  und 
our  guns  he  let  us  pass." 

"And  what  did  you  say,  Schmidt?"  asked 
McNeil. 

"Ve  told  'em  to  go  vere  dey  vas  going," 
said  the  corporal,  turning  away  amid  a  great 
outburst  of  laughter  from  the  men. 

"Good!"  said  McNeil.  "When  they  get 
nearer  we'll  help  them  on  their  journey." 


IV 

WHICH  SETS  FORTH  THE  EEPULSE 
OF  THE  FIRST  SAVAGE  ATTACK 

A~jL  these  operations  had  taken  consider- 
able time.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon, 
the  sun  was  low  on  the  horizon  behind 
the  mountains,  and  it  was  already  dusk  in  the 
meadow  when  the  first  Indian  appeared  on  the 
trail  down  the  canyon.  Like  the  mountain 
brook,  which  had  cut  its  way  through  the 
hills,  the  canyon  was  as  crooked  as  a  ram's 
horn,  and  so  narrow  that  an  active  man  could 
throw  a  stone  from  wall  to  wall  through  most 
of  its  length.  The  pocket  in  which  they  were 
encamped,  however,  was  almost  big  enough 
to  be  known  in  the  wild  West  as  a  "hole."  It 
was  at  least  a  mile  wide  and  the  entrance 
where  the  Indian  appeared  was  just  barely 
within  range  of  a  good  rifle,  though  a  trifle  far 
for  a  trooper's  carbine.  Of  course,  the  camp 
was  in  plain  sight  and  the  Indian  scout,  think- 
ing himself  entirely  safe,  surveyed  it  keenly. 

58 


REPULSE  OF  THE  FIRST  ATTACK       59 

"I  don't  like  the  looks  av  him,"  said  the 
sergeant  to  Corporal  Jackson.  "You've  got 
a  marksman's  badge,  give  him  a  shot — not 
from  your  carbine,  but  from  that  Winchester 
by  your  hand." 

The  corporal,  nothing  loath,  knelt  down, 
rested  the  new  and  improved  gun,  which  had 
been  shipped  to  one  of  the  officers,  on  a  con- 
venient boulder,  took  long  and  careful  aim, 
and  pressed  the  trigger.  The  Indian  and  his 
horse,  who  had  been  standing  like  bronze 
statues,  went  down  with  a  crash.  So  sudden 
and  startling  was  the  catastrophe  that  the 
horse  fell  over  the  trail,  pitching  the  Indian 
out  into  the  water  of  the  brook,  which  there 
happened  to  be  both  broad  and  deep.  He 
went  in  with  a  mighty  splash. 

"You  got  'em  both!"  cried  one  as  the  men 
broke  into  cheers. 

But  this  announcement  was  a  trifle  prema- 
ture. The  Indian's  pony  had  evidently  re- 
ceived the  corporal's  bullet,  for  he  lay  in  a 
huddled  heap  at  the  side  of  the  brook  below  the 
trail.  The  Indian  himself,  very  much  be- 
draggled, and  as  they  could  guess  furiously 
angry,  swam  out  of  the  pool,  shook  his  fist 


60        A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

threateningly  at  them,  and  skipped  around 
the  bend  just  in  time  to  escape  another  shot, 
which  Jackson  sent  after  him. 

"I  guess  that'll  kape  'em  off  the  trail,  all 
right, "  said  McNeil  grimly.  "  'Twas  a  long 
shot,  Jackson.  You  did  well. ' ' 

"Shust  dake  a  look  over  dere,"  said 
Corporal  Schmidt,  suddenly  pointing  across 
the  canyon. 

Outlined  against  the  sky  on  the  opposite 
canyon  wall  suddenly  appeared  a  number  of 
feathered  heads.  Instantly  they  came  in  view 
they  fired  at  the  camp.  McNeil  laughed. 

"They're  wastin'  powdher  an'  shot  there," 
he  said. 

"Und  dey  vill  be  over  our  heads  on  diss 
side,"  continued  Corporal  Schmidt.  "See." 

The  next  minute  a  rain  of  rocks  came  plung- 
ing down  the  face  of  the  cliff,  but  on  account 
of  the  overhang  every  one  fell  clear  of  the 
entrenched  camp  and  splashed  into  the  waters 
of  the  brook,  which  here  ran  close  by,  some 
twenty  feet  below  the  shelf,  or  buried  itself 
harmlessly  in  the  meadows. 

"That's  jest  to  let  us  know  they're  there," 
said  Marnette. 


REPULSE  OF  THE  FIRST  ATTACK       61 

"It  vould  be  better  if  dey  had  not  done  dot, 
den  ve  vould  not  know,"  said  Schmidt. 

"Your  experience  has  been  in  European 
wars,  Schmidt,  but  I  want  to  tell  you,  after 
havin'  fought  the  Injuns  for  twenty  years, 
there  ain't  many  tricks  in  the  game  they  don't 
know.  They  fight  in  their  own  way,  but  they 
don't  lose  no  chances,"  continued  the  old 
scout. 

"An*  it's  a  pretty  good  way,  too,"  said 
Jackson,  "an'  those  are  the  pick  of  all  the  In- 
juns in  the  United  States.  An'  that  there 
Dull  Knife's  most  as  good  a  gener'l  as  old 
Crazy  Horse  or  Eed  Cloud  hisself.  The  Gov'- 
ment  has  been  fightin'  'em  ever  since  the  Civil 
War,  an'  we  ain't  got  'em  yet." 

"I'm  thinkin'  we'll  git  a  few  afore  we  git 
out  av  here,"  said  McNeil. 

"And  we  will  have  plenty  to  choose  from," 
dryly  remarked  Marnette.  "Look  yonder  in 
the  meadow." 

Taught  by  the  narrow  escape  of  their  scout, 
the  Indians  had  descended  from  the  trail  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  bend.  They  had 
crossed  the  brook  and  were  now  filing  into  the 
meadow  near  the  bluff  on  the  opposite  side. 


62         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

They  came  in  countless  numbers  apparently; 
first  the  warriors,  then  the  women  and  chil- 
dren, then  the  herds.  It  was  not  a  war  party. 
It  looked  more  like  a  migration.  The  season 
was  late.  It  was  evidently  Dull  Knife's  big 
band  moving  off  to  find  safe  winter  quarters 
where  they  could  be  sheltered  from  the  cold 
and  snow  and  hidden  from  the  soldiers,  who, 
to  tell  the  truth,  did  not  often  resort  to  winter 
campaigns.  There  were  numberless  fast- 
nesses in  the  unexplored  mountains,  which 
would  be  well  suited  to  the  purposes  of  the 
savages. 

They  had  evidently  blundered  on  this  party 
of  McNeil's,  yet  now  that  they  had  fallen  in 
with  them,  temptation  to  dispatch  them  was 
irresistible.  Their  determination  became 
fixed  when  little  Molly  McNeil  unthinkingly 
jumped  up  on  a  wagon  to  get  a  better  view. 
The  Indians  caught  sight  of  her  skirts  flutter- 
ing in  the  breeze  before  her  father,  who 
sprang  toward  her,  could  drag  her  down. 
There  was  a  woman  and  probably  more  women 
in  that  camp!  That  settled  it.  They  would 
take  them  at  whatever  cost. 

McNeil  was   furiously   angry.     He   shook 


REPULSE  OF  THE  FIRST  ATTACK       63 

Molly  violently.  He  realized  instantly  what 
the  discovery  of  her  presence  would  mean.  It 
would  make  his  task  that  much  harder. 

"You  disobajent  child,"  he  cried,  raising 
his  hand,  "didn't  I  tell  you  to  kape  back  an 
out  av  sight,  an'  now— 

"Be  aisy  wid  the  darlint,  you  know  she's 
only  a  child,  an'— 

"To  those  Injuns  out  yonder  she's  a  woman. 
They'll  never  lave  us  now." 

"They  wouldn't  have  left  us,  anyway,"  said 
Bridget,  deftly  extricating  the  frightened 
Molly  from  her  father's  clutch,  "an'  they 
would  soon  find  out  we  was  here." 

The  diversion  fortunately  saved  Molly  from 
further  punishment  from  her  father.  Eapidly 
spreading  over  the  meadow,  the  Indians  now 
opened  fire.  McNeil  stepped  closer  to  the  bar- 
ricade, as  the  men  were  already  fingering  their 
rifled  carbines. 

"Kape  fasht,"  he  said,  "till  I  give  the 
ordher.  If  we  don't  answer  they'll  come 
nearer,  an'  the  more  shots  we  can  git  home 
the  healthier  will  be  their  reshpect  for  us. 
Steady,  bhoys,  steady." 

Back  by  the  ambulance  Molly  was  getting 


64         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

hers,  for  indignant  Mrs.  McNeil  boxed  her  ears 
soundly. 

"The  idea  of  vexin'  your  father,  wid  all  his 
cares  an'  responsibilities.  If  'twas  more 
private  I'd  lay  you  over  me  knee."  She  set 
her  down  violently.  "Shtay  there  an'  don't 
you  move  till  I  give  you  lave." 

Poor  Molly,  whimpering  and  very  much 
frightened,  instantly  obeyed.  Meanwhile  it 
worked  out  just  as  the  experienced  sergeant 
had  foreseen.  The  Indians  raced  rapidly  in 
giddy  circles  past  the  shelf,  generally  throw- 
ing themselves  behind  the  horses  and  firing  as 
they  passed.  The  bullets  splintered  against 
the  rock  overhead  or  buried  themselves  in  the 
wagon  beds.  But  one  struck  a  trooper  in  the 
arm. 

"Are  you  badly  hurrt,  man?"  asked  Mc- 
Neil anxiously  as  he  saw  the  soldier  stagger. 

"In  the  arm." 

"Is  it  broke!" 

"No,  sir." 

"Go  back  to  the  women  an'  git  it  dressed 
an'  come  back  here,"  said  McNeil  briefly. 
"Bridget." 

"Phwhat  is  it?" 


REPULSE  OF  THE  FIRST  ATTACK       65 

' 'Here's  work  for  you,  an'  Molly,  too." 

The  Indians  were  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
with  every  revolution  they  made. 

"We  might  give  'em  a  shot  or  two  now,  ser- 
geant," said  Jackson. 

"It  iss  better  to  vait  a  little  more,  I  dinks," 
said  the  deliberate  and  cautious  Schmidt. 

"Every  time  they  pass  they  git  nearer," 
said  McNeil.  "We'll  have  plenty  of  chances 
prisently  an'- 

"Here  they  come  again,"  said  Jackson  as 
the  streaming  horde  drew  abreast  of  the  little 
entrenchment. 

McNeil  bent  forward,  took  a  critical  look, 
measured  the  distance,  straightened  up,  lifted 
his  rifle. 

"Give  it  to  'em,  men.  Not  too  fast. 
Shteady." 

The  wagon-box  fort  was  rimmed  with  smoke 
which  was  punctured  with  fire.  The  rifles  of 
the  defenders  spoke  almost  in  unison.  Wait- 
ing for  the  cloud  of  smoke  to  blow  away  before 
they  fired  again,  they  saw  as  it  lifted  a  dozen 
Indian  ponies  down  and  half  as  many  Indians. 
One  of  them  suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet. 
Three  rifles  cracked  simultaneously  and  the 


66          A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

unfortunate  Indian  went  down  again,  this  time 
for  good. 

"We've  got  plenty  of  ammunition  an'  we'd 
better  make  sure.  Give  each  wan  av  'em  lyin ' 
there  another  bullet,"  ordered  the  sergeant. 

It  was  grim  work  and  ruthless,  but  perhaps 
more  merciful  in  the  end,  for  it  would  be  al- 
most impossible  for  any  wounded  man  to  have 
got  away.  He  would  have  to  lie  there  and  suf- 
fer or  die,  covered  as  he  was  by  the  guns  of 
the  soldiers.  Of  course,  the  loss  that  had  been 
inflicted  upon  the  Indians  was  trifling,  com- 
paratively speaking,  but  it  was  very  healthy 
for  the  defenders  in  its  moral  effect  neverthe- 
less. The  circus  riding  ceased  at  once.  The 
Indians  drew  off  to  safe  distance  and  began 
to  debate  on  what  was  to  be  done. 

Evidently  they  decided  that  since  night  was 
at  hand,  their  first  business  would  be  to  make 
camp.  One  arm  of  the  brook  which  divided  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  meadow  skirted  the  cliff 
on  the  opposite  side.  There  was  a  fine  stretch 
of  woodland  at  the  base  of  the  other  wall. 
The  Indians  retired  thither  and  pitched  their 
tepees.  It  was  now  so  dark  that  the  soldiers 
could  not  make  out  what  was  being  done,  but 


REPULSE  OF  THE  FIRST  ATTACK       67 

the  presence  of  numberless  little  fires  told 
them  that  the  Indians  were  preparing  to  make 
a  night  of  it. 

The  defenders  were  in  reasonably  good 
spirits.  Between  Marnette's  encounter  and 
the  smart  action  of  Schmidt *s  squad  on  the 
trail  and  the  good  shooting  of  the  defenders  of 
the  enclosure,  they  had  accounted  for  nearly  a 
score  of  Indians  with  only  two  unimportant 
casualties.  Marnette  declared  that  he  was  all 
right,  or  would  be,  and  the  trooper  whose 
wound  in  the  left  arm  Bridget  and  Molly  had 
dressed  was  already  back  at  his  place  in  the 
fighting  line. 

The  most  serious  accident  that  had  hap- 
pened to  them  had  been  the  piercing  of  their 
water  cask  by  a  stray  bullet.  As  this  cask 
contained  the  larger  part  of  the  water  supply, 
the  troopers  had  drunk  freely  of  their  canteens 
during  the  heat  of  the  fray,  and  they  were 
somewhat  dismayed  when  they  found  that  all 
the  water  had  run  out  of  the  cask  except  a 
modicum  at  the  bottom  below  the  hole  made  by 
the  bullet.  There  was,  however,  in  some 
buckets  a  supply  enough  for  the  next  day,  if  it 
were  carefully  husbanded.  Of  course,  the 


68         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

brook  ran  close  by  some  twenty  feet  below  the 
level  of  the  shelf.  A  little  stretch  of  broken 
rock  intervened  between  the  foot  of  the  cliff 
and  the  bank  of  the  stream  so  that  they  could 
not  draw  water  up  by  dropping  buckets  over 
on  the  ends  of  ropes,  although  they  tried  it. 

McNeil  decided  to  make  no  attempt  to  send 
any  one  down  to  get  water  that  night.  The  re- 
maining buckets  with  their  precious  contents 
were  carefully  concealed  behind  boulders  and 
whatever  was  left  in  the  individual  canteens 
was  added  to  the  general  store.  Bridget  took 
upon  herself  the  task  of  serving  it  out  a  cupful 
at  a  time  at  such  intervals  as  her  husband 
directed. 

"Now,  Danny,"  said  the  sergeant  as  soon 
as  it  had  become  quite  dark,  "I  guess  you'd 
better  be  makin'  a  shtart.  We  know  that 
there's  a  detachment  av  these  Indians  on  the 
bluffs  over  our  heads.  We  know,  too,  that 
you  can't  git  up  the  cliff  here,  but  up  the  trail 
about  half  a  mile  the  wall  is  broke.  Did  you 
notice  it  when  we  passed  this  mornin'?" 

"I  did,  sor." 

"It's  there  you  had  better  thry  it.  For  the 
love  av  hiven  go  cautious  an'  don't  make  any 


REPULSE  OF  THE  FIRST  ATTACK      69 

mistakes,  an'  if  you  get  killed  may  yon  never 
live  to  tell  it. " 

' <I  won't,  sor." 

"Anybody  can  git  himself  killed.  That's 
aisy.  'Tis  the  brave  man  that  gits  through," 
continued  the  old  sergeant.  "Think  of  the 
women  that's  here.  It  don't  make  so  much 
difference  about  the  men.  It's  all  in  the  day's 
work,  we've  got  to  take  phwhat's  comin'  to 
us,  but  there's  little  Molly  an'  good  old  Brid- 
get an'  the  major's  lady."  The  sergeant 
stopped,  turned  away,  and  shook  his  head. 
"Well,  no  more  av  that.  Go,  my  bhoy,  an' 
God  an'  the  saints  bless  you." 

Danny  had  taken  off  his  uniform  and  had 
put  on  a  brown  leather  hunting  suit  that  he 
had  taken  from  a  package  sent  to  Lieutenant 
Hadden,  who  was  about  his  size,  and  which 
he  had  been  specially  commissioned  to  look 
after.  He  had  discarded  his  boots  and  put  on 
a  pair  of  stout  Indian  moccasins.  He  shook 
hands  with  the  sergeant  and  turned  away.  As 
he  passed  the  ambulance  he  paused.  Bridget 
and  Molly  were  standing  there. 

"Has  Mrs.  Compton  anythin'  else  to  say?" 
he  asked. 


70        A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

1 1  She 's  slapin '  now,  poor  darlint, ' '  answered 
Bridget.  "Go,  an*  may  hiven  protect  you.^ 

Bestowing  a  furtive  pat  on  Molly's  curly 
head,  Meagher  climbed  noiselessly  over  the 
barricade,  and  set  his  moccasined  feet  on  the 
trail.  He  pressed  close  to  the  rock  and  slowly 
made  his  way  up  the  canyon,  feeling  with  his 
foot  every  step  he  took  lest  he  might  strike 
a  loose  pebble  or  give  other  notice  of  his  prog- 
ress to  the  keenest  and  most  watchful  senti- 
nels in  the  world;  for  he  knew,  as  everybody 
else  did,  that  the  Indian  observers  would  prob- 
ably be  hidden  in  the  grass  of  the  meadow  or 
behind  hillocks  or  in  ravines  not  a  hundred 
feet  away. 

Danny  had  lived  in  the  West  for  a  long 
time.  He  had  been  born  in  Nebraska,  in  fact, 
and  was  an  accomplished  plainsman  before  he 
joined  the  Army.  He  had  been  helped  a  great 
deal  by  old  Marnette's  advice  in  a  short  talk 
he  had  enjoyed  in  the  intervals  of  fighting, 
yet  in  spite  of  a  cool  head  it  was  with  a  beating 
heart  that  he  crept  along. 


SHOWS  THE  MEKCY  IN  THE  BULLET 
OF  A  FEIEND 

BACK  in  the  camp,  McNeil  was  taking 
counsel  with  his  subordinates. 

"If  anybody  could  git  through,  that 
bhoy'll  do  it,"  he  said. 

"But  it  may  be  beyond  human  power. 
P'r'aps  we'd  better  send  another  messenger 
the  other  way,"  observed  Jackson. 

"I  dink  it  vould  be  veil,"  assented  Schmidt. 

"What  do  you  think  about  it,  Marnette?" 

"Of  course,"  said  the  old  scout  after  con- 
sidering the  subject  carefully,  "there's  more 
than  a  chance  that  the  youngster  won't  git 
through.  If  he  don't,  an'  unless  the  people  at 
the  post  becomes  alarmed  becuz  we  don't  come 
in,  an'  send  out  to  hunt  for  us  of  their  own 
accord,  an'  send  a  party  strong  enough  to 
rescue  us,  I  guess  we'll  never  leave  this  rock. 
On  the  whole,  I'm  inclined  to  agree  with  our 
German  friend  yere." 

71 


72         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"But  if  we  send  another  man,  shall  we  send 
him  af ther  Danny  1 ' ' 

"No,  he'd  better  go  down  the  canyon." 

"But  the  Injuns  came  from  that  way." 

"Yes,  that  may  make  his  chance  harder  or 
it  may  make  it  easier.  Nachur'ly  the  Injuns 
might  think  nobody  'd  be  fool  enough  to  go 
down  where  they  came  up,  an'  there  you  are." 

"I  see." 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  call  for  another  volun- 
teer," continued  the  scout. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Jackson  and  Schmidt  simul- 
taneously. 

The  Irish  brogue  and  the  broken  English 
blended  strangely,  but  McNeil  shook  his  head. 

"If  anything  should  happen  to  me,  you  two 
men  would  be  needed.  Marnette  can't  go, 
nayther. ' ' 

"Blast  that  Injun  that  got  me,"  said  Mar- 
nette disgustedly.  "Without  meanin'  any  re- 
flection on  you  soldiers,  I'm  the  one  man  who 
could  have  done  it. ' ' 

"But  it  is  out  of  the  question.  We  can't 
send  a  wounded  man  on  an  errand  like  that. 
Who  is  the  best  man  to  do  it,  now  that 
Meagher  has  gone  ? ' ' 


THE  BULLET  OF  A  FRIEND  73 

"There's  Seddon,"  suggested  Jackson. 

"He  iss  a  goot  man,"  assented  Schmidt. 

"We  can't  make  any  commotion  by  askin' 
for  volunteers.  Schmidt,  bring  Seddon  over 
here." 

The  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in 
low  tones.  There  would  be  keen  ears  perhaps 
within  hearing  distance.  There  were  plenty 
of  Indians  who  understood  English  sufficiently 
well  to  make  out  what  was  being  planned  if 
they  could  hear. 

Most  of  the  troopers  had  rolled  themselves 
up  in  their  blankets,  pillowed  their  heads  on 
their  saddles,  and  had  gone  to  sleep  by  Mc- 
Neil's direction.  He  wanted  them  to  be  as  fit 
as  possible  and  there  was  no  necessity  for  the 
whole  command  to  keep  awake.  Sentinels  had 
been  placed  and  they  were  attentive  to  their 
duties.  Schmidt  found  Seddon  without  diffi- 
culty and  a  touch  on  his  shoulder  awakened 
him. 

"De  sergeant  vants  you,"  he  whispered, 
"und  don't  make  any  noise." 

Seddon  was  on  the  alert  on  the  instant.  He 
rose,  walked  over  to  the  little  group,  and  sa- 
luted. 


74         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Seddon,"  said  McNeil,  "we  have  decided 
to  send  out  another  messenger,  this  time  to 
go  down  the  canyon.  It  would  make  too  much 
commotion  to  wake  the  men  an'  ask  one  av  'em 
to  volunteer.  We  think  you're  the  best  man 
for  the  job.  'Tis  a  juty  I  won't  ordher  any 
man  to  undertake. ' ' 

"I'll  be  glad  of  the  chance,  sergeant,"  said 
Seddon  eagerly.  "I  was  terribly  disappointed 
when  you  chose  Meagher." 

"Good,"  said  McNeil.  "I  knew  we  were 
not  mistaken,  an'  as  it  happens,  you've  got 
the  most  dangerous  task,  the  post  of  honor 
afther  all." 

"Have  you  any  orders?" 

"None,  except  to  go  down  the  canyon  an'- 
you  heard  phwhat  I  said  to  Meagher.     You 
know  that  if  we're  not  rescued  we'll  be  picked 
off  wan  by  wan,  an'  in  the  end— 

"I  understand,"  said  Seddon. 

"I  wish  you  could  git  a  huntin'  suit 
like » 

"We  can  fix  part  of  that,"  said  Marnette. 
"You  take  my  leather  shirt  an'  gimme  your 
jacket.  Mrs.  McNeil's  got  another  pair  of 
moccasins,  she  told  me — 


THE  BULLET  OF  A  FRIEND  75 

"You  can  have  'em,"  chimed  in  McNeil. 

"That  will  do  fine,"  said  Seddon,  rapidly 
divesting  himself  of  his  coat,  which  he  handed 
to  Marnette.  "Here's  hoping  that  either 
Meagher  or  I  or  both  of  us  get  through,"  he 
said  cheerfully,  as  he  slipped  on  the  moccasins 
which  McNeil  fetched  for  him.  "If  I  don't, 
you  will  see  that  somebody  writes  to  my 
mother,  sergeant  I  Captain  Calmore  has  her 
address  in  the  company  files." 

"I  will  that,"  answered  McNeil  solemnly, 
"but,  plaise  God,  nothin'  may  happen.  Is 
there  anything  we  can  do  for  you?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Seddon. 

"May  God  guard  you,  old  man,"  said  Jack- 
son earnestly,  for  he  and  Seddon  were  very 
warm  friends  and  comrades  of  long  standing 
— "bunkies,"  in  fact. 

"You  haff  de  hardest  task  und  de  most  hon- 
orable," said  Schmidt. 

The  four  men  shook  hands  with  him  and 
Seddon  turned  away,  clambered  noiselessly 
over  the  barricade,  and  went  down  the  trail 
as  Meagher  had  gone  up. 

"I'll  set  up  till  twelve  o'clock,"  said  Mc- 
Neil. "You  two  men  can  turn  in  if  you  want 


76        A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

to.  At  twelve  I'll  wake  Jackson  an'  at  four 
Schmidt '11  relieve  him." 

"I  don't  feel  like  sleeping  now,"  said  Jack- 
son. 

"Nor  me  needer,"  said  Schmidt. 

"How  long  do  you  think  we  can  hold  this 
place,  Jackson?" 

"Jest  as  long  as  there  are  enough  of  us  left 
alive  to  keep  off  them  Injuns.  We've  got  am- 
munition an'  grit  enough  an'  I  guess  we  can 
git  water  somehow." 

"But  they  got  one  av  us  to-day.  If  that 
bullet  had  gone  a  few  inches  to  the  right,  the 
man  would  have  been  killed.  You  know  them 
Injuns.  They'll  swarm  about  us  an'  pour  a 
perfect  rain  of  lead  in  here  an'  some  av  us  are 
bound  to  git  picked  off.  Onless  ye  can  inflict 
a  heavy  loss  on  them  they'll  kape  it  up  until 
we  go  wan  by  wan.  An'  they  might  git  us  all 
in  a  day  or  two  days,  three  at  the  outside,  I 
should  think." 

"Veil,"  said  Schmidt,  "all  ve  got  to  do  iss 
to  keep  at  dem  shust  as  long  as  dere  iss  any 
of  us." 

"You're  right  there,  Dutch,  an' " 

"Hark!    What's  that?" 


THE  BULLET  OF  A  FRIEND  77 

The  three  men  sprang  to  their  feet  and  ran 
to  the  barricade.  Beyond  the  lower  end  where 
the  trail  led  down  the  canyon  there  was  a 
sudden  rattle  of  shots.  Flashes  of  light  pene- 
trated the  darkness  and  in  the  silence  of  the 
night  the  reports  sounded  loud  and  fearfully 
near. 

"Dey  got  him,7'  said  Schmidt  in  an  awe- 
struck whisper. 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  said  McNeil. 

"Poor  Seddon!"  at  last  said  Jackson,  turn- 
ing away  to  hide  his  face.  "Well,  he  died 
like  a  brave  man." 

The  next  minute  the  whole  meadow  was 
alive.  It  was  quite  evident  what  had  hap- 
pened. The  Indians  had  guarded  the  lower 
end  of  the  trail  and  Seddon  had  blundered  into 
them.  They  could  picture  him  fighting  for  his 
life.  That  he  did  so  that  rattle  of  shots  had 
proved.  The  Indians  had  awakened  all  over 
the  meadow.  They  fired  on  the  camp.  The 
men,  now  all  wide  awake,  lay  quiet  behind  the 
wagons  by  McNeil's  orders  until  the  firing 
gradually  died  away.  There  were  no  casual- 
ties, and  the  remainder  of  the  night  passed 
without  other  interruption  or  mischance  of 


78         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

any  kind.  Indeed,  the  men  all  got  some  sleep 
to  fit  them  for  the  hard  day  to  come. 

At  dawn  they  found  that  some  of  the  In- 
dians had  been  busy.  In  front  of  the  soldiers 
in  the  meadow  a  huge  stake  cut  from  a  tree 
on  the  other  side  had  been  driven  into  the 
ground  during  the  night.  It  was  just  out  of 
range  from  the  shelf.  The  morning  sun  dis- 
covered the  naked  body  of  Seddon  bound  to  it. 
He  had  been  frightfully  wounded,  his  body 
was  covered  with  blood,  and  from  the  way  he 
hung  in  the  lashings  it  was  seen  that  he  was 
in  a  terrible  state.  One  arm  hung  absolutely 
limp.  The  other  was  left  free.  He  had  been 
scalped,  too,  but  he  was  alive ! 

Such  anguish  and  rage  filled  the  hearts  of 
these  men  that  McNeil  had  to  knock  two  of 
them  down  with  the  butt  of  his  gun  to  keep 
them  in  the  barricade.  Not  that  he  felt  less 
than  the  others;  on  the  contrary,  since  it  was 
he  who  had  sent  Seddon  out  to  this  awful 
death.  But  he  realized  that  the  Indians  had 
put  him  there  to  draw  the  men  from  the  camp 
so  that  they  could  be  overwhelmed  in  the  open 
— tempting  them  to  a  sortie  which  would  result 
in  their  instant  destruction.  Seddon  would 


THE  BULLET  OF  A  FRIEND  79 

have  to  stand  the  torture,  and  the  men  would 
have  to  witness  the  sacrifice.  It  was  horrible. 

The  Indians  evidently  believed  that  the  ap- 
peal to  the  soldiers  could  not  be  made  too 
strongly  or  too  quickly.  They  brought  bundles 
of  dry  wood  and  piled  them  around  the  stake 
at  which  they  had  tortured  their  wretched  cap- 
tive during  the  night.  One  of  them  next  ap- 
proached with  a  torch,  which  he  plunged  into 
the  dry  wood.  Seddon  was  still  alive.  He 
lifted  his  free  hand  and  brought  it  suddenly 
up  to  his  heart.  His  meaning  was  unmistak- 
able. 

"I'm  the  best  shot  of  the  bunch, "  said  Mar- 
nette  suddenly  as  the  flames  began  to  crackle 
through  the  fagots,  "an7  I  reckon  it's  up  to 
me  to  put  him  out  of  his  mis'ry  an'  balk  them 
red  devils." 

"Lest  anybody  should  think  I  am  shirking 
my  duty,  I  want  to  say  in  the  presence  av  all 
av  the  men  that  I  approve  av  phwhat  you 
would  do,"  said  McNeil,  grim  and  grave  of 
face  and  voice. 

"But  it's  too  long  a  shot  from  here,"  said 
Jackson  hoarsely — Seddon  was  his  dearest 
friend ;  he  could  not  bear  to  see  him  suffer. 


80          A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"I  don't  intend  to  try  it  from  yere,"  said 
Marnette,  quietly  looking  to  his  rifle. 

"You  know  they're  doin'  it  to  make  us  come 
out  to  rescue  him? " 

"Well,  we'll  make  a  bluff  at  that.  I'll  go 
first,  an'  I  suggest  that  you  send  ten  men  to 
f oiler  arter  me  in  single  file  with  their  guns 
loaded,  sergeant." 

"Good.  Wid  phwhat  is  left  we'll  open  fire 
so  as  to  cover  you  an'  make  'em  think  we  are 
the  fools  they're  playin'  us  for." 

"I'll  stop  jest  as  soon  as  I  git  in  safe  range 
an'  let  him  have  one  bullet  an'  then  afore  they 
know-  it  we'll  run  back  in  the  fort." 

The  ruse  of  the  old  frontiersman  was  quite 
plain.  He  would  make  the  Indians  think  that 
the  party  was  coming  out  to  rescue  Seddon, 
by  which  means  they  would  probably  retire 
until  they  thought  the  party  had  moved  far 
enough  away  from  the  enclosure  to  enable 
them  to  get  them  before  they  attempted  to 
make  any  attack. 

"  'Tis  a  foine  plan  an'  I  approve  av  it," 
said  the  sergeant  grimly. 

"For  the  love  av  hiven!"  said  Bridget, 
suddenly  coming  to  the  sergeant's  side.  She 


THE  BULLET  OF  A  FRIEND  81 

was  experienced  enough  to  know  what  was 
toward. 

"Marnette  is  goin'  to  shoot  him,"  whis- 
pered her  husband.  ' '  Take  Molly  back  there. 
'Tis  no  sight  for  a  child.  Don't  let  even  a 
whisper  of  it  git  to  Mrs.  Compton's  ears. 
How  is  she?" 

Bridget  shook  her  head. 

" She's  a  sick  woman  this  day." 

"Then  go  to  her.  'Tis  no  sight  for  a  woman 
or  a  man  aven.  Do  you  all  understand,"  he 
asked  loudly  as  Bridget  drew  away,  "that  all 
this  is  done  by  me  ordher?" 

Nobody  could  say  he  shirked  responsibility, 
and  it  was  a  fearful  one  to  condemn  a  man  to 
instant  death.  Yet  there  would  be  mercy  in 
Marnette 's  bullet,  the  only  mercy  they  could 
show  their  unfortunate  comrade.  McNeil 
looked  at  the  old  scout  and  knew  that  he  would 
not  miss.  His  nerves  were  like  iron.  Eapidly 
the  sergeant  directed  Schmidt  and  then  ten 
soldiers  to  follow  the  scout.  Jackson  and  the 
others,  white-faced  and  shaking,  watched. 

Wasting  no  more  words,  Marnette  sprang 
over  the  barricade,  dropped  down  the  face  of 
the  cliff,  crossed  the  brook  while  Schmidt  and 


82         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

the  other  men  followed  him  closely.  They 
made  a  great  show  of  speed  as  they  deployed 
and  advanced  across  the  meadow.  The  In- 
dians, who  had  bound  Seddon,  made  a  great 
pretence  of  withdrawing,  but  McNeil  and 
Jackson  observed  that  they  did  not  go  far 
and  that  those  near  the  camps  were  already 
mounting  their  ponies. 

For  a  moment  it  flashed  into  the  minds  of 
Marnette  and  Schmidt,  who  were  side  by  side, 
that  perhaps  by  a  mad  dash  they  could  rescue 
Seddon.  McNeil,  standing  on  top  of  the  bar- 
ricade, seemed  to  divine  their  thoughts.  He 
shouted  out  to  them. 

"You  can't  do  that.  For  pity's  sake,  git  it 
over  wid  an'  git  back.  They're  mountin'  be- 
yant." 

He  gave  an  order  and  the  barricade  was  cov- 
ered with  smoke  as  the  volleys  went  through 
the  air.  And  in  order  to  give  the  impression 
that  the  number  of  the  defenders  was  great, 
the  soldiers  fired  again  and  again,  using  their 
spare  rifles  as  well  as  their  own.  Meanwhile 
the  little  band  advanced  slowly. 

"Now,"  said  Marnette,  firmly  halting  at 
last,  "it's  a  long  shot,  but  I  can  do  it  by  the 


THE  BULLET  OF  A  FRIEND  83 

help  of  God.  The  rest  of  you  fire  at  the  In- 
dians as  soon  as  I  fire. ' ' 

Seddon  was  a  hero  to  the  last.  As  the  men 
advanced  he  waved  them  back  with  his  hand 
and  then  again  pointed  to  his  heart.  The  old 
scout  took  careful  aim.  Indeed,  he  could  not 
miss.  He  prayed  as  he  glanced  through  the 
sights.  Then  Marnette's  rifle  cracked  and 
Seddon  collapsed,  killed  instantly.  His  head 
fell  forward.  His  anguish  was  over.  There 
was  a  new  red  spot  on  his  white  breast  over 
his  heart.  The  old  scout's  nerve  had  served 
him  well.  He  had  not  wasted  a  moment.  Al- 
ready the  flames  were  leaping  high  about  the 
post. 

"Fine  shooting, "  said  the  old  German  in  an 
awe-struck  voice.  "A  good  endt  for  a  brave 
man.  A  friend's  bullet  in  his  heart.  It  iss 
better  so.  Ve  go  back.  Dey  are  coming  on 
de  run." 

The  Indians,  maddened  by  the  trick,  exas- 
perated by  Seddon 's  release,  hurried  frantic- 
ally on  horseback  across  the  prairie  only  to 
be  checked  by  the  withering  fire  of  the  de- 
fenders ;  yet  the  little  expedition  did  not  come 
off  scot-free.  One  of  the  soldiers  was  shot 


84         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

through  the  body.  As  Schmidt  had  led  the 
advance  he  brought  up  the  rear.  He  saw  the 
soldier  fall.  He  picked  him  up  and  carried 
him  into  the  fort.  He  was  not  yet  dead,  but 
his  lease  of  life  was  evidently  not  a  long  one. 
Seddon  was  dead,  two  soldiers  were  wounded 
—one  mortally.  Meagher  was  gone.  The  lit- 
tle command  was  reduced  to  sixteen  unharmed 
soldiers,  five  drivers,  who  were  as  good  as  sol- 
diers in  defence,  Marnette,  and  the  sergeant. 

"Well,"  solemnly  began  Marnette,  wiping 
the  sweat  from  his  brow,  "I  never  did  any- 
thing on  earth  I  hated  to  do  like  that." 

McNeil  grasped  him  by  the  hand  and  looked 
him  full  in  his  white  face. 

"It  was  well  done.  The  whole  command 
blesses  you  for  it.  Now  men,  three  cheers  for 
Marnette." 

"No,"  cried  the  old  scout,  "let's  give  'em 
for  Seddon." 


VI 


WHEREIN  TROOPER  DANNY  MEAGHER 
WINS  THROUGH  THE  LINES 

IT  was  with  a  beating  heart  that  Danny 
Meagher  crept  like  a  shadow  up  the  rocky 
trail    on    the    side    of    the    canyon.     He 
hugged  the  canyon  wall,  feeling  his  way  cau- 
tiously, straining  his  eyes  ahead  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  carefully  examining  every  blacker 
shadow  that  fell  across  the  narrow  trail  just 
wide  enough  for  the  wagon  train  to  pass. 

He  was  lost  in  the  darkness,  yet  as  the  night 
was  still  cloudless  he  could  mark  the  top  of  the 
wall  by  the  stars.  Fortunately  there  was  no 
moon  and  the  valley,  or  pocket,  to  his  left  was 
completely  dark,  save  for  the  watch  fires  of 
the  Indian  encampment  on  the  further  side, 
which  he  was  rapidly  leaving  behind. 

In  spite  of  his  precautions  sometimes  he 
would  step  on  a  loose  pebble  and  the  gentle 
rattle  of  the  stone  as  it  gave  way  under  his 

85 


86         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

foot  sounded  in  his  strained  ear  like  a  volley 
of  rifle  shots. 

The  boy's  position  was  one  of  terrible  dan- 
ger. The  Indians  filled  the  valley  to  the  left 
of  him.  He  knew  that  a  detachment  had  been 
posted  on  the  hills  above  him.  Whether  any 
one  had  been  stationed  on  the  trail  ahead  or 
not  he  could  not  tell.  Good  generalship  would 
indicate  that  there  would  be  a  sentry  or 
watcher  up  the  canyon  to  give  notice  of  any 
attempted  escape  that  way.  The  Indians 
were  not  accustomed  to  neglect  points  in  the 
game  of  war. 

Danny  had  his  carbine  slung  over  his  shoul- 
der. He  also  had  a  small  but  heavy  wood- 
man 's  axe,  which  he  carried  in  his  hand.  This 
with  his  service  revolver  in  his  belt  constituted 
his  equipment.  A  shot  would  arouse  the  enemy 
on  all  sides  and  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  If 
he  met  any  one  he  must  trust  to  the  axe  as  a 
last  resort.  It  was  like  a  tomahawk,  the  silent 
Indian  weapon. 

He  had  got  some  distance  from  the  main 
camp — not  very  far,  to  be  sure,  because  of  his 
slow  and  cautious  progress,  but  quite  out  of 
sight  of  it,  owing  to  the  crookedness  of  the 


DANNY  MEAGHER  GETS  THROUGH   87 

canyon — when  lie  heard  clearly  in  the  stillness 
of  the  night  a  sudden,  rapid  rattle  of  rifle 
shots.  He  stopped  and  listened.  The  obvious 
explanation  was  an  attack  on  the  camp,  but 
Danny  had  been  trained  in  the  open  and  his 
ears  were  unusually  keen,  his  judgment  re- 
markable for  so  young  a  man,  and  he  decided 
that  the  rifle  shots  came  from  further  away 
than  the  camp. 

They  could  only  mean  the  interception  of 
some  one  going  to  or  from  the  camp — another 
messenger  perhaps.  If  so,  his  attempt  was  a 
failure.  Then  came  a  sound  of  rapid  firing 
from  the  meadow. 

He  stood  listening  for  a  moment,  but  it  was 
a  problem  he  could  not  solve  and  as  his  own 
business  was  pressing  he  started  ahead,  ven- 
turing to  run  a  little  in  the  noise  and  confu- 
sion. Suddenly  rounding  a  big  boulder,  a  lit- 
tle distance  away  he  saw  an  Indian. 

The  rifle  shots  had  aroused  the  attention  of 
the  redskin.  He  had  stepped  to  the  edge  of 
the  trail,  and,  resting  his  hand  on  a  small, 
scrubby  pine  tree,  was  leaning  far  out  looking 
in  the  direction  of  the  barricade,  which,  of 
course,  he  could  not  see,  with  the  valley 


88         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

wrapped  in  darkness  before  Mm.  This  Indian, 
who  had  been  stationed  where  he  was  to  watch 
the  trail,  was  so  interested  in  what  was  hap- 
pening  in  the  meadow  that  he  had  neglected 
his  principal  business.  He  did  not  hear  the 
trooper,  nor  did  he  glance  in  his  direction. 

Meagher  had  a  second  or  two  to  make  up 
his  mind  as  to  what  course  to  pursue.  He 
needed  no  more  time.  He  stepped  softly  for- 
ward like  a  great  cat  and  presently  flung  him- 
self upon  the  Indian,  praying  to  God  that  he 
might  be  alone.  So  eager  and  intent  upon  his 
prey  was  he  that  he  actually  forgot  the  axe  in 
his  hand.  It  fell  as  he  sprang  toward  the 
Cheyenne.  As  he  leaped  he  struck  with 
clenched  fist  and  the  full  force  of  his  right 
arm.  Although  Danny  Meagher  had  been 
born  in  this  country,  he  had  inherited  a  full 
measure  of  Irish  temper  from  his  father  and 
mother,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  that  he  re- 
strained himself  from  shouting  with  the  sheer 
joy  of  conflict. 

The  Indian,  as  has  been  described,  was  lean- 
ing far  over  the  trail,  which  had  here  been  cut 
out  of  the  side  of  the  canyon,  and  there  was  a 
sheer  descent  of  some  forty  feet  to  the  brook 


DANNY  MEAGHER  GETS  THROUGH   89 

below.  Such  was  the  force  of  Danny's  leap 
and  blow  that  the  Indian's  arm  was  torn  away 
from  the  small  tree  to  which  he  held,  and  with- 
out having  time  to  utter  a  cry,  he  was  hurled 
down  the  sharp  declivity.  The  impetus  of  the 
action  would  have  carried  Danny  down  also, 
and  it  would  have  been  utterly  impossible  for 
him  to  have  recovered  himself  at  the  brink  of 
the  cliff,  had  he  not  luckily  brought  up  squarely 
against  the  stout  sapling,  which  withstood  the 
momentum  of  his  smash  into  it  and  did  not 
give  away,  so  that  by  a  violent  effort  the 
trooper  managed  to  retain  his  footing. 

The  Indian  had  been  too  astonished  to  ut- 
ter a  cry.  As  the  soldier  peered  over  the 
brink  of  the  little  cliff  he  saw  his  body  huddled 
in  a  heap  on  the  rocks  below.  The  Indian  was 
either  dead  or  stunned.  It  did  not  make  much 
difference  from  Danny's  point  of  view,  for  be- 
fore he  could  give  the  alarm  the  soldier  would 
be  far  away.  Nor  could  he  shoot  him  for  fear 
of  giving  an  immediate  alarm. 

Waiting  a  moment  to  see  if  any  attention  had 
been  aroused  by  the  encounter,  he  retraced  his 
steps  to  the  trail.  Taking  the  axe  again, 
Meagher,  feeling  sure  that  there  was  now  no 


90         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

one  in  his  path,  ran  rapidly  up  the  trail,  notic- 
ing as  he  did  so  the  gradual  dying  down  of  the 
firing  behind  him.  After  ten  minutes  he  came 
to  the  place  where  he  had  decided  to  climb 
to  the  top. 

The  canyon  wall  had  been  broken  by  an  old 
water  course,  which  in  the  rainy  season  still 
discharged  a  great  volume  of  water  into  the 
brook,  at  such  time  a  roaring,  rushing  river. 
It  was  dry  now,  and  for  the  most  part  its  as- 
cent presented  no  difficulties.  There  was  a 
chance  that  it  would  be  guarded  at  the  top. 
The  chance  Meagher  would  have  to  take.  He 
rushed  up  the  steep  and  broken  acclivity  as  if 
he  were  charging  a  battery,  for  realizing  that 
he  could  not  hope  to  ascend  without  making 
any  noise,  he  decided  that  the  best  plan  was 
to  climb  up  at  his  best  speed,  regardless  of 
how  many  broken  rocks  he  disturbed  or  what 
attention  he  attracted. 

Panting,  perspiring,  slipping,  struggling, 
at  last  he  got  within  a  hundred  feet  of  the  top. 
There  he  stopped.  There  was  certainly  some 
one  above  him  on  the  brink  of  the  cliff.  He 
heard  voices,  footsteps!  The  water  course 
turned  sharply  to  the  right  of  him.  After 


DANNY  MEAGHER  GETS  THROUGH   91 

listening  he  decided  that  if  any  Indians  were 
there  they  would  be  grouped  about  that  side. 

It  was  now  pitch  dark.  Clouds  had  ap- 
peared and  were  drifting  across  the  sky,  veil- 
ing even  the  faint  light  of  the  stars.  The 
wind  had  also  risen.  The  brink  of  the  canyon 
was  fringed  with  pines  and  the  murmuring  of 
swaying  branches  in  the  fresh  breeze  gave  him 
a  little  more  freedom  of  action.  He  could 
make  some  noise  now  without  being  heard. 
Evidently  his  approach  had  not  yet  been  no- 
ticed. 

He  decided  upon  the  risky  attempt  of  cross- 
ing the  ravine — he  was  then  on  the  right  side 
—and  ascending  the  cliff  to  the  left,  hoping  to 
gain  the  upland  without  being  discovered. 
This  time  he  proceeded  more  cautiously  than 
before.  He  was  glad  that  he  was  dressed  in 
the  dull  brown  leather  hunting  suit  instead  of 
his  betraying  uniform  of  blue  and  brass  and 
yellow,  and  that  his  feet  were  covered  with 
the  soft  moccasins  in  place  of  heavy,  clumsy 
boots  and  jingling  spurs,  which  would  infalli- 
bly have  betrayed  him. 

It  was  terribly  difficult  to  climb  the  cliff 
when  he  left  the  draw,  or  coulee.  He  crept  like 


92         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

a  monkey  from  rock  to  rock,  now  drawing  him- 
self up  by  means  of  cracks  and  crevices,  now 
placing  his  weight  on  small  trees,  now  clinging 
to  flimsy  undergrowth  that  bade  fair  to  give 
way  under  his  weight.  He  finally  stopped  just 
beneath  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

In  after  years  Danny  Meagher  often  visited 
that  very  spot.  He  could  scarcely  bring  him- 
self to  believe  that  he  had  made  the  ascent  as 
he  had  that  night.  Indeed,  had  it  been  day- 
light he  could  never  have  done  it.  Had  the 
emergency  been  less  pressing  he  would  never 
have  attempted  it  in  the  night,  even  with  most 
of  its  dangers  unseen. 

He  crouched  down  behind  a  boulder  just  be- 
low the  cliff,  the  edge  of  which  he  could  reach 
by  extending  his  hand.  He  was  breathless, 
almost  exhausted,  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his 
forehead.  His  heart  was  thumping  madly 
from  the  extra  exertion  in  the  high  altitude. 
In  spite  of  himself  he  had  made  some  noise. 
Eight  in  the  middle  of  the  water  course  he 
had  unfortunately  dislodged  a  rock,  which  had 
gone  bounding  down  into  the  canyon,  a  thou- 
sand feet  below. 

Outlined  against  the  sky  he  could  see  dimly 


DANNY  MEAGHER  GETS  THROUGH   93 

a  group  of  four  Indians  at  the  mouth  of  the 
water  course  off  to  his  right  that  was  now  in 
front  of  him  as  he  faced  them  and  knelt  be- 
hind the  boulder.  They  were  talking  rapidly 
and  gesticulating  wildly.  He  knew  a  little  of 
the  Sioux  dialect  they  were  using,  and  he  made 
out  that  their  suspicions  had  been  aroused 
and  that  they  were  sure  somebody  was  there. 
Two  of  them  decided  to  descend  the  water 
course  to  investigate.  He  saw  them  swing 
over  the  brink  of  the  cliff  and  scramble  down. 

The  soldier  waited,  hoping  that  the  two 
who  were  left  would  go  away,  but  they  showed 
no  disposition  to  leave.  Time  was  precious. 
He  decided  at  last  he  would  have  to  get  on,  In- 
dians or  no  Indians.  His  gun  was  still  slung 
over  his  back.  He  stood  up  carefully  and  laid 
the  axe  on  the  top  of  the  little  cliff,  here  only 
about  six  feet  high.  He  swung  the  revolver 
holster  forward  so  he  could  seize  it  instantly 
in  case  of  need.  He  could  easily  spring  at  the 
cliff  and  draw  himself  up,  but  that  would  make 
a  noise.  He  must  get  to  the  upland  some 
quieter  way. 

Keeping  his  eyes  on  the  Indians  and  noting 
with  great  satisfaction  that  they  had  not  been 


94         A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

disturbed  yet,  he  climbed  carefully  upon  the 
boulder,  behind  which  he  had  crouched,  and 
then  reached  his  hand  out  to  the  upland,  which 
was  here  just  about  as  high  as  his  middle.  As 
he  did  so  he  felt  the  huge  rock,  which  happened 
to  be  delicately  balanced,  tremble  under  his 
feet.  In  sudden  alarm  he  sprang  to  the  pla- 
teau. As  he  did  so  the  immense  boulder  was 
dislodged  and  went  crashing  down  the  ravine 
with  a  roar  like  a  thunder  clap. 

The  two  Indians  who  had  been  sitting  on  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  to  the  right  sprang  to  their 
feet,  gun  in  hand,  and  stared  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound.  One  of  them  caught  sight  of 
Danny,  apparently,  for  he  shouted  something 
to  his  companion  and  they  both  ran  toward 
him.  Meagher  was  discovered.  There  was  no 
pretence  of  concealment  as  the  second  Indian 
followed  his  companion.  They  had  their  guns 
in  one  hand  and  hatchets  or  knives  in  the 
other. 

It  took  them  but  a  few  seconds  to  cover  the 
distance  between  them  and  Danny  Meagher. 
That  was  time  enough  for  him,  however.  He 
ripped  out  his  revolver  and  shot  the  first  In- 
dian in  the  body,  fired  at  the  second,  missed 


DANNY  MEAGHER  GETS  THROUGH   95 

him,  but  did  not  stop  to  see.  He  bolted  across 
the  upland  directly  away  from  the  canyon  at 
such  a  pace  as  he  had  never  attained  before. 
For  the  moment  the  surviving  Indian  did  not 
attempt  to  follow.  He  stopped  by  his  dead 
companion  and  when  he  looked  up  the  soldier 
had  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  Danny  ran  toward  the 
Indian  pony  herd.  There  seemed  to  be  a  con- 
siderable encampment  on  the  brink  of  the 
canyon  farther  down.  He  had  no  idea  how 
many  ponies  there  were,  but  it  was  evident 
that  there  were  a  number.  Dogs  barked. 
Back  a  mile  or  so,  just  directly  over  the  barri- 
cade of  the  soldiers,  in  the  canyon,  he  saw 
fires.  There  was  commotion  in  that  camp. 
Guns  were  fired  wildly.  Yells  and  cries  came 
to  him  faintly. 

The  ponies  were  very  restless.  A  lad  was 
guarding  them.  He  sprang  up  suddenly  in  the 
soldier's  path.  The  trooper  bowled  him  over 
like  a  tenpin.  The  next  instant  Meagher 
grabbed  a  horse  and  threw  himself  across  it 
before  the  surprised  boy  could  prevent.  Dig- 
ging his  heels  into  the  pony's  flanks,  he  gal- 
loped away  into  the  night. 


96          A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

His  movement  frightened  the  herd  and  all 
the  ponies  scattered.  Meagher  was  without 
means  of  guiding  the  pony — he  had  been  lucky 
even  to  get  on  one — but  he  was  fortunately 
headed  in  the  direction  that  took  him  away 
from  the  lip  of  the  canyon,  and  he  urged  his 
mount  mercilessly  to  the  very  limit  of  his 
power. 

No  one  knew  in  what  direction  he  had  gone, 
and  after  a  while  he  found  himself  riding  ap- 
parently alone  and  not  pursued.  His  heart 
throbbed  with  exultation.  He  had  passed 
safely  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the  journey. 
It  would  go  hard,  indeed,  if  he  could  not  com- 
pass the  rest. 


VII 

WHEEEIN    THE   WATER    OF   LIFE    IS 
MEASURED  BY  THE  BLOOD  OF  MAN 

INFURIATED  by  the  brilliant  yet  terrible 
exploit  by  which  they  were  prevented 
from  torturing  poor  Seddon,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  balked  of  their  desire  to  provoke  a 
sortie  with  which  their  overwhelming  force 
could  have  dealt,  on  the  other,  the  Indians  kept 
up  a  close  and  continuous  fire  on  the  camp  all 
day  long.  They  took  advantage  of  every 
cover  afforded  by  the  rolling  surface  of  the 
meadow,  the  abandoned  ranch  buildings, 
boulders,  and  dry  water  courses  of  the  rainy 
season,  ditches  or  trenches  cut  by  streams 
in  flood,  to  pour  a  hail  of  bullets  upon  the  de- 
fenders. 

Most  of  the  shots  went  wild — flattened 
harmlessly  against  the  rocks  or  spent  in  the 
closely  packed  wagon  beds.  But  here  and  there 
a  bullet  would  penetrate  some  cranny  and 
bury  itself  in  a  soldier.  By  nightfall  a  number 

97 


98          A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

of  them  had  been  hit.  Five  of  them  were  stone 
dead,  three  were  desperately  and  two  severely 
wounded.  McNeil  did  not  count  those  that, 
scratched  or  grazed,  were  able  to  continue  the 
battle. 

The  Indians  had  paid  dearly.  Firing  slowly 
and  carefully,  the  soldiers  had  inflicted  ten 
times  as  much  damage  as  they  had  themselves 
sustained.  At  least  that  was  in  accordance 
with  their  best  judgment.  The  meadow  was 
dotted  with  dead  horses  and  some  bodies  of 
dead  warriors,  which  the  survivors  had  not 
been  able  to  remove. 

At  five  o'clock  a  great  horde  of  Indians, 
who  had  been  galloping  madly  to  and  fro, 
suddenly  at  a  given  signal  from  old  Dull 
Knife,  who  led  the  charge  in  person,  faced 
toward  the  shelf  and  galloped  directly  at  it 
under  cover  of  the  smoke  of  a  heavy  dis- 
charge. At  the  full  speed  of  their  ponies  the 
wild  horsemen  rushed  gallantly  forward. 
Their  courage  was  indisputable.  The  rifle- 
men, sharp-shooters,  or  whatever  they  may  be 
called,  who  had  been  firing  from  cover  all  day 
long,  now  rose  to  their  feet,  or  their  knees, 
and  poured  a  redoubled  fire  across  the  shelf. 


WATER  AND  BLOOD  99 

McNeil  had  divined  it  and  his  men  were  ready 
for  the  grand  assault.  The  soldiers,  who  were 
provided  with  extra  rifles  and  ammunition  in 
plenty,  sent  back  shot  for  shot,  and  more. 

Numbers  of  the  Indians  went  down  in  the 
charge,  but  it  was  not  stopped  until  the  sur- 
vivors reached  the  creek.  The  footmen  had 
run  with  the  horsemen  as  the  latter  came 
abreast  them  and  as  the  riders  stopped  and 
fired  the  men  on  foot  sprang  across  the  creek 
or  plunged  through  it  and  sought  to  scale  the 
wall.  Some  of  them  actually  gained  a  footing 
on  the  shelf.  The  fighting  was  of  the  fiercest 
description — hand  to  hand — and  in  the  end  it 
was  little  Molly  who  saved  the  day. 

Abandoning  for  a  moment  her  care  of  the 
wounded,  she  had  stood,  gun  in  hand,  staring 
at  the  awful  tumult  in  front  of  her.  A  sound 
drew  her  head  around  and  she  was  horrified 
to  observe  a  file  of  Indians  coming  up  the 
trail  to  her  left! 

Engrossed  in  the  bitter  conflict  raging 
along  their  front,  and  uniting  in  the  deter- 
mined effort  to  drive  the  Indians  from  the 
shelf,  the  men  whose  business  it  was  to  keep 
watch  on  that  side  had  turned  toward  their 


100       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

hard-pressed  comrades.  Above  all  the  tumult 
the  sergeant  heard  Molly  scream.  He  turned 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  flying  toward  the  ex- 
treme left  of  the  half  circle  of  wagons.  He 
did  not  dare  leave  the  front  of  the  line.  To 
Corporal  Schmidt  he  committed  it. 

"To  the  left,"  he  cried  to  the  veteran,  who 
happened  to  be  nearest  him.  The  experienced 
soldier  needed  nothing  but  that  command. 
Leaving  the  few  men  at  the  front  of  the  bar- 
ricade still  fighting,  Schmidt  grabbed  Mar- 
nette  and  Jackson,  who  were  both  yet  un- 
harmed, and  ran  toward  Molly.  As  they 
started,  the  plumed  head  of  an  Indian  rose 
above  the  last  wagon  bed.  They  would  be  too 
late !  The  Cheyenne,  swinging  his  war  hatchet 
in  one  hand,  a  revolver  in  the  other,  prepared 
to  leap  down  into  the  enclosure,  but  Molly  sud- 
denly presented  her  rifle  and  fired.  The  dead 
Indian  went  down  backward,  carrying  with 
him  several  others,  who  were  close  at  his 
heels.  The  next  moment  the  three  men  were 
at  the  barricade  emptying  their  own  revolvers 
into  the  detachment.  Ineffectively  attempting 
to  return  this  withering  fire,  the  Indians 
finally  broke  and  fled. 


MOLLY   SUDDENLY   PRESENTED   HER   RIELE  AND   FIRED 


WATER  AND  BLOOD  101 

Sunset  found  the  shelf  cleared  of  all  assail- 
ants, except  dead  ones,  but  at  fearful  cost. 
Every  white  man  on  it  was  wounded  some- 
where. There  were  but  five  men  fit  for  duty. 
Three  troopers  and  four  teamsters  had  been 
killed  in  the  last  assault.  In  a  pinch,  however, 
some  of  the  wounded  men  could  still  use  a  rifle 
effectively.  The  Indians  had  been  terribly 
punished.  The  creek  below  was  choked  with 
dead  bodies.  They  had  come  on  with  the  most 
tremendous  determination  and  had  persisted 
in  the  attack  with  a  tenacity  and  resolution 
almost  unparalleled  in  savage  warfare.  They 
had  evidently  had  enough  for  that  night  at  any 
rate.  Marnette  and  McNeil  both  felt  that 
there  was  no  further  assault  to  be  appre- 
hended until  the  next  morning.  Well  did  the 
heroic  defenders  need  that  respite. 

Before  all  the  survivors  McNeil  caught 
Molly  to  his  breast. 

' '  My  girl, ' '  he  said,  his  heart  throbbing  with 
pride,  "  'tis  you  that  saved  us.  You  have  the 
makings  av  a  soldier's  wife  in  you.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  your  schramin— 

"And  don't  forget  that  shot  from  her  rifle, 
sergeant,"  said  old  Marnette.  "Without  that 


10£       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

we'd  have  been  done  for  between  Injuns  at 
our  backs  an'  them  over  there." 

" It's  proud  of  you  I  am,"  said  Bridget  Mc- 
Neil, coming  from  the  ambulance  bed.  "I'd 
like  to  have  been  there  meself,  but  instead  of 
takin'  life  I  was  savin'  it." 

"What  d'ye  mean!"  asked  McNeil. 

Bridget  lifted  her  hand.  Into  the  sudden 
silence  broke  the  thin,  small,  shrill  cry  of  new- 
born life! 

"It  came,"  she  said,  "in  the  midst  av  the 
fightin'." 

"Is  it  a  bhoy?" 

* l  'Tis  a  beautiful  girl  child.  If  you  could 
have  seen  the  poor  mother  lyin'  there  a- 
clenchin'  her  hands  an'  a-lockin'  her  jaws  to- 
gether wid  all  the  sufferin'  an'  pain  because 
she  said  she  wouldn't  utter  a  groan  or  make  a 
sound  that  might  dishturb  you  or  dishtract  you 
or  kape  you  from  fightin '  your  best. ' ' 

' i  God  an '  the  saints ! ' '  cried  McNeil,  taking 
off  his  cap.  "We've  got  another  one  to  fight 
for  now,  bhoys !  'Tis  a  babby.  The  daughter 
av  the  regiment." 

<  <  Three  cheers  for  the  daughter  of  the  regi- 
ment," said  Jackson. 


WATER  AND  BLOOD  103 

And  every  man  who  was  able  to  speak 
joined  in  the  acclaim.  It  was  almost  like  the 
salute  to  Caesar  of  those  about  to  die. 

"And  how  is  Mrs.  Compton?" 

"As  well  as  could  be  expected.  I'm  no 
dochtor,  but  I  did  phwhat  I  could.  Now  I 
must  have  some  warrum  wather." 

"Wather!"  cried  McNeil.  He  looked  about 
him.  "There's  not  a  drap  left,  an'- 

"An'  we  dare  not  kindle  a  fire,"  said  Jack- 
son. 

"We  must.  Somebody's  got  to  git  some 
wather.  We  can  make  a  fire  down  there  be- 
hind the  rocks.  I've  got  to  have  it,"  said 
Bridget  doggedly. 

"If  you've  got  to  have  it,"  said  the  ser- 
geant, "we've  got  to  git  it.  What  the  com- 
mandin'  officer  says  goes." 

He  was  haggard,  he  was  weary,  he  was 
wounded,  he  was  overburdened  with  responsi- 
bilities. He  had  fought  like  a  tiger.  Indeed, 
it  was  his  prowess  alone  that  had  saved  them 
in  the  end.  Marnette  never  forgot  how  the 
big  sergeant  had  actually  taken  one  Indian 
up  in  his  arms  and  thrown  him  bodily  out 
into  the  void  by  main  strength.  He  loved  to 


104       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

tell  the  tale  in  after  days  around  the  evening 
fire,  on  the  lonely  trail  or  in  mountain  camp. 

"An'  if  you  must  have  wather,  Bridget 
darlint,  I  can't  ask  or  ordher  any  man  to  git 
it.  rilgoineself." 

"Who  ever  heard  of  the  commandin'  officer 
appointin'  hisself  the  water  detail?"  said 
Corporal  Jackson  suddenly.  "I'm  the  fresh- 
est one  of  the  bunch.  I'll  go.  You're  all 
wounded— 

"Und  so  are  you,"  said  Schmidt. 

"Yes,  but  it's  only  a  scratch." 

"Und  so  iss  mine;  I  go,"  said  Schmidt. 

"Gimme  a  chance,"  cried  Bagley,  the  sur- 
viving teamster,  who  had  fought  as  bravely  as 
any  one.  "I  ain't  a  soldier;  I  can  be  spared." 

1  '  Now,  we  've  been  kept  out  of  everything  by 
you  soldiers,"  urged  Marnette.  "I  guess  it'll 
be  up  to  me  this  time." 

They  all  crowded  around  McNeil. 

"Soldiers  an'  gintlemen,"  he  said  quietly, 
"for  so  anybody  could  call  you  after  the  fight 
you  put  up" — good  fighting  evidently  being 
the  basis  of  McNeil's  idea  of  a  gentleman— 
"your  ambitions  do  you  honor,  an'  I  know 
there  ain't  a  helpless  man  here  who  wouldn't 


WATER  AND  BLOOD  105 

be  willin'  to  thry  it,  but  fair  play  compels  me 
to  p'int  out  that  Corp'ral  Jackson  spoke  first. 
If  you  can  find  a  bucket  that  ain't  been  bat- 
tered to  pieces  or  shot  through  an'  through 
you  can  thry  it  as  soon  as  it  gits  darker. 
Meanwhile  the  rest  of  us  will  pile  some  rocks 
up  to  hide  the  fire  as  best  we  can.  I'm  thank- 
ful the  ground  runs  low  at  the  back.  See, 
there's  been  a  shtrame  av  bullets  gone  through 
the  top  of  the  ambulance.  Begorry,  if  it  had 
set  higher  up,  there  would  have  been  no  baby 
born  this  night  at  all."  - 

The  sun  at  that  season  descended  early  and 
the  mountains  cast  deep  shadows.  The  twi- 
light was  brief.  Stripped  of  his  boots  and 
laying  aside  his  weapons,  Jackson,  carrying 
the  only  bucket  intact,  left  the  enclosure.  He 
did  not  propose  to  descend  to  the  creek  in 
front  of  the  wagon  beds.  He  decided  it  would 
be  safer  for  him  to  go  up  the  canyon  a  little 
distance,  where  the  descent  was  easier  and 
where  he  could  perhaps  escape  notice  if  he 
were  fortunate.  The  four  men  and  the  others 
not  too  severely  wounded  to  be  unmindful  of 
everything  watched  him  glide  away  in  the 
darkness  in  his  stocking  feet. 


106       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

After  a  while  a  shot  rang  out  from  the 
meadow,  followed  by  a  number  of  others. 
McNeil  turned  and  looked  at  the  other  men. 
Marnette  shook  his  head  gloomily. 

"It  might  better  haff  been  me,"  said  tho 
German. 

"Or  me,"  said  Bagley. 

"Well,"  said  McNeil  quickly,  "we've  got 
to  git  some  wather,  not  only  for  Bridget  an' 
Mrs.  Compton  an'  the  baby — there's  the 
wounded  men  without  a  drap  to  cool  their 
lips." 

"It's  risky,  but  I'll  try  it  this  time,"  said 
Bagley. 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  tug  at  his  boots. 
The  next  instant  a  figure  seen  dimly  in  the 
darkness  mounted  the  wagon  bed  and  stepped 
slowly  down  into  the  enclosure.  He  was  hold- 
ing a  bucket  steadily  in  one  hand. 

"Jackson!"  cried  McNeil  in  low  but  de- 
lighted voice. 

"Quick,  take  the  bucket,"  answered  the 
corporal  feebly. 

Schmidt  took  the  bucket  from  him  and  then, 
and  not  until  then,  did  the  iron  nerve  of  the 
man  relax. 


WATER  AND  BLOOD  107 

"They  got  me,"  he  said. 

He  fell  forward.  McNeil  caught  him  in  his 
arms. 

"In  the  breast/'  he  murmured.  "But  I 
brought  the  water — for  the  women — an'  the— 
baby.7' 

He  collapsed  utterly  with  that  last  broken 
word.  There  was  a  furious  rattle  in  his 
throat.  McNeil  eased  him  down  to  the  ground. 
There  was  a  tin  candle  lantern  sitting  behind 
a  boulder. 

"Fetch  it  here,"  he  said  in  an  awe-struck 
whisper. 

Some  one  handed  it  to  him.  Shielding  it 
from  the  meadow,  McNeil  turned  to  the  pros- 
trate man.  There  was  a  smile  on  Jackson's 
face,  but  he  was  dead.  McNeil  opened  his 
jacket.  There  was  a  bullet  hole  in  his  breast. 
His  left  arm  was  stained  and  there  was  an- 
other bullet  hole  lower  down  in  his  body. 

"He  was  hit  three  times,"  he  said,  "but  he 
had  the  nerve  to  bring  that  bucket  back,  an' 
it's  brimful." 

"An'  never  spilled  a  drop!"  said  Bagley. 
"What  a  man!" 

McNeil  handed  the  bucket  to  Schmidt. 


108       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

i  i  Take  it  to  Bridget  and  say  it  is  as  precious 
as  the  blood  av  men/'  he  said.  "Tell  her  to 
use  it  carefully,  it's  all  we've  got,  an'  when 
it's  gone  we  can't  git  any  more." 

"How  goes  the  battle?"  asked  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton,  lying  back  in  her  rude  bed,  a  baby  head 
on  her  arm,  as  McNeil  came  over  to  her  after 
a  while. 

"We've  held  'em  off  to-day,  ma'am.  We're 
good  for  one  more  fight  for  you  an'  the  babby, 
too.  If  Danny  got  through  they'd  ought  to  be 
here  to  rescue  us  in  the  mornin'." 

"And  if  they  don't  come,"  said  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton,  "and  anything  happens,  you  will  see  that 
we " 

"We'll  take  care  av  you  an'  the  child, 
ma'am,"  said  McNeil  gravely. 

"I  want  you  to  know  what  Bridget  has  been 
to  me  to-night." 

"I  can  guess,"  said  the  sergeant  simply. 
"She's  been  everything  to  me  for  twinty 
years. ' ' 

"And  when  Bridget  has  her  washed  and 
dressed  I  want  you  to  show  the  baby  to  the 
men,  if  it  is  safe,"  said  Mrs.  Compton. 

"They  shall  look  at  the  little  angel,  ma'am," 


WATER  AND  BLOOD  109 

said  McNeil.  "I'm  thinkin'  it's  like  to  be  the 
only  angel  some  of  them '11  be  after  seein'  ever 
at  all." 

He  turned  away,  leaving  Bridget  busied  over 
the  low  fire,  where  the  water  was  heating, 
with  which  she  could  wash  and  dress  the  baby 
and  care  for  the  mother.  A  rare  woman,  this 
army  sergeant's  wife,  and  a  rare  woman  to 
whom  she  ministered  in  that  ghastly  hour  on 
that  bloody  enclosure  in  the  lonely  mountain 
pass. 

She  brought  the  baby  out  after  a  while. 
The  soldiers  looked  at  it  wonderingly.  They 
put  out  their  big  hands  and  touched  it.  The 
wounded  turned  their  eyes  upward  toward  it. 
They  heard  it  cry  again  and  then  Bridget  took 
it  back  to  its  mother.  There  was  no  rest  for 
Bridget  that  night.  She  spent  most  of  the 
hours  with  the  wounded,  and  Molly  was  her 
brave  little  assistant. 

"If  they  don't  come  airly  in  the  mornin'," 
said  McNeil  to  Schmidt,  Marnette,  and  Bagley, 
"we're  done  for." 

"I  guess  that's  about  right,  sergeant,"  said 
Marnette. 

"Veil,  we  haff  given  dem  a  mighty  battle, 


110       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

und  dere  iss  some  fight  left  in  us  yet,"  said 
Schmidt. 

"I  don't  feel  like  writing  a  report  to-night, 
but  if  I  live  the  colonel  shall  know  what  sort 
of  men  you  are, ' '  said  McNeil. 

"The  field  will  report  us,  all  right, "  said 
Bagley. 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  git  ready  for  the 
morniny  said  the  sergeant,  "and  plan  for 
desperate  further  resistance." 

The  brave  men  passed  the  night,  somehow, 
each  of  them  getting  a  few  hours  of  sleep  in 
turn  to  fit  him  for  the  ghastly  exactions  to  be 
expected  on  the  morrow. 


VIII 

HOW  DANNY  MEAGHEE  ESCAPED  THE 
INDIANS  AND  THE  EATTLESNAKE 

DANNY  MEAGHEE  rode  the  Indian 
pony  until  he  was  ready  to  drop. 
More  by  good  fortune  than  anything 
else  he  succeeded  in  getting  him  down  to  the 
bank  of  the  river,  and  as  the  stream  had  cut  a 
well-defined  way  through  the  sandy  soil  of  the 
upland,  it  was  not  difficult  to  keep  the  pony 
headed  along  the  bank  of  the  river.  He  urged 
him  forward  by  every  means  he  possessed 
and  got  over  the  ground  at  a  great  rate.  It 
rather  went  against  the  trooper's  grain  to 
drive  the  poor  horse  so,  but  the  supreme  neces- 
sity justified  his  ruthless  insistence.  The  pony 
finally  gave  out  utterly  just  as  the  first  indi- 
cations of  dawn  appeared  on  the  horizon.  He 
refused  to  take  another  step;  indeed,  when 
Meagher  dismounted,  the  exhausted  pony  col- 
lapsed utterly. 

The  trooper  had  reached  the  great  bend  of 
ill 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

the  river.  To  the  north  rose  white-headed 
Cloud  Peak,  towering  over  the  Big  Horn 
Eange.  Fort  Sullivan  lay  to  the  northeast- 
ward about  fifteen  miles.  He  would  have  to 
leave  the  shelter  of  the  river  bed  and  proceed 
over  the  treeless  plain  until  he  reached  the 
foothills.  There  were  a  few  ravines  here  and 
there,  and  before  him  were  the  springs  of  a 
tributary  to  the  river,  which  from  time  imme- 
morial had  been  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  buf- 
falo, especially  in  the  summer  when  the  water 
was  scarce  elsewhere.  Indeed,  the  ground 
was  broken  into  huge  pits  or  depressions 
known  as  buffalo  wallows. 

As  it  was  late  in  the  fall  there  was  no 
water  in  these  wallows.  The  early  winter 
rains  had  not  yet  set  in,  and  the  springs  them- 
selves were  mainly  dry.  There  was  water 
enough  for  his  purposes,  however.  He  filled 
his  canteen,  bathed  his  face  and  hands,  ate  a 
portion  of  the  bread  and  meat  he  had  brought 
with  him  in  the  pocket  of  his  jacket,  drew  in 
his  belt  a  little,  and,  feeling  greatly  refreshed 
by  rest,  food,  and  drink,  started  toward  the 
wallows.  The  prairie  ahead  of  him  was  a  roll- 
ing succession  of  gentle  hills.  From  the  de- 


DANNY'S  DOUBLE  ESCAPE     113 

pressions  in  which  he  found  himself  he  could 
see  little  save  the  hills  and  the  horizon,  except 
where  the  mighty  range  ran  to  the  northward. 
When  he  reached  the  crest  of  one  of  the  ele- 
vations he  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  further 
hills  and,  away  off  to  the  north  and  west,  al- 
ways dominant,  lay  the  great  bulk  of  the 
mountains. 

Following  the  roundabout  course  of  the 
river,  he  had  traversed  some  twenty-five  or 
thirty  miles  of  territory  and  he  now  deemed 
himself  to  be  at  least  ten  miles  from  the  can- 
yon wall  guarded  by  the  Indians.  Mounting 
the  nearest  and  highest  hillock,  he  surveyed 
the  country  for  miles  in  every  direction. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  an  Indian,  or  of  any 
other  human  being,  for  that  matter,  in  any 
direction.  Of  course,  he  realized  there  might 
be  thousands  in  the  valleys,  but  there  were 
none  on  the  hills,  near  or  far. 

He  set  out  valiantly  to  walk  the  distance  be- 
tween him  and  the  post.  It  was  not  good  walk- 
ing. In  some  places  the  ground  was  very 
sandy.  In  stretches  it  was  overgrown  with 
tough  prairie  grass,  which  greatly  impeded  his 
footsteps.  But  through  sand  or  undergrowth, 


114       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

or  up  hills  or  down  them,  or  through  valleys  or 
across  ravines,  he  plodded  steadily  onward  for 
some  hours. 

From  the  sun  he  judged  it  to  be  about  nine 
o'clock,  and  that  he  had  covered  about  half 
the  distance  he  had  to  go,  when  he  decided  to 
sit  down  and  rest.  Although  he  had  been  ex- 
tremely fortunate  so  far,  he  did  not  know 
what  demands  he  would  have  to  meet,  and  it 
would  not  do  for  him  to  be  utterly  worn  out. 
He  must  husband  his  resources  for  a  possible 
emergency.  Instinctively  he  chose  a  shallow 
ravine  in  which  to  rest  as  the  propriety  of  con- 
cealment was  obvious.  Indeed,  he  had  never 
mounted  a  hill  without  cautiously  reconnoi- 
tering  before  he  showed  himself  over  the  top 
of  it. 

He  thought  it  unlikely  that  any  Indians 
were  behind  him  on  the  prairie,  but  it  was  not 
impossible  that  he  might  run  across  a  wan- 
dering band  in  front  of  him.  It  was  warm  in 
the  ravine,  and  he  was  very  tired.  He  sat 
down  on  the  sandy  bottom  and,  leaning 
his  shoulders  against  the  bank,  closed  his 
eyes. 

When  he  opened  them  again  after  a  nap, 


DANNY'S  DOUBLE  ESCAPE     115 

which  he  had  not  meant  to  take,  and  the  dura- 
tion of  which  he  did  not  then  have  time  to  de- 
termine, he  put  his  hand  to  the  ground  pre- 
paratory to  rising,  while  compunctions  of  con- 
science filled  his  being.  He  felt  exactly  as  a 
soldier  might  who  had  slept  when  at  his  post 
of  duty.  To  be  sure,  there  was  no  one  to  know 
it  or  report  it,  he  realized  with  a  feeling  of 
thankfulness  as  he  slowly  turned  over  and 
made  ready  to  get  to  his  feet  and  resume  his 
hard  journey. 

He  had  not  got  any  further  than  his  knees 
—and  it  was  fortunate  for  him  that  he  had 
been  so  unusually  deliberate — when  he  heard 
voices  and  the  nicker  of  a  pony !  He  stopped 
instantly  and  crouched  down  to  his  smallest 
compass  behind  the  bank.  The  voices  were 
fearfully  near,  and  he  could  hear  the  tram- 
pling of  the  feet  of  horses.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  Indian  tongue.  The  sodded  bank 
of  the  ravine  rose  a  foot  or  two  above  his  head 
and  slightly  overhung.  As  he  crouched  down 
he  could  not  see  over  it  at  all.  He  judged 
from  the  number  of  voices  and  from  the  com- 
motion made  by  the  ponies  that  there  must 
be  at  least  half  a  dozen  men  on  the  hillock 


116       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

just  above  the  ravine.  What  they  were  doing 
there,  where  they  were  going,  what  the  mo- 
ment would  bring  forth,  he  could  not  tell. 

The  horses  were  moving,  but  only  restlessly. 
It  was  evident  that  the  party  had  halted. 
There  was  a  paralyzing  sense  of  impotence  in 
Danny's  mind.  There  was  not  a  single  thing 
he  could  do  but  lie  there.  The  ravine  was  too 
shallow  to  hide  him  if  he  stood  up  and  there 
was  no  use  in  trying  to  crawl  away.  He  would 
be  heard  and  presently  he  would  be  seen.  Of 
course,  he  could  sell  his  life  dearly.  He 
reached  around  and  drew  his  revolver,  he  had 
already  unslung  his  rifle  and  it  lay  close  at 
hand.  But  he  knew  that  the  fight  he  would  put 
up  would  be  a  hopeless  one. 

To  give  him  his  just  due,  it  was  not  his  own 
peril  that  almost  stopped  his  heart,  but  the 
sense  of  the  possible,  almost  certain,  failure  of 
his  effort  to  tell  the  story  of  his  beleaguered, 
hard-beset  comrades  and  the  women  that 
overwhelmed  him.  He  knew  that  unless  help 
came  to  them — and  unless  he  told  the  story 
in  all  probability  it  would  not — they  would  be 
overwhelmed  in  the  canyon  in  spite  of  any 


DANNY'S  DOUBLE  ESCAPE     117 

courage,  heroism,  or  desperate,  stubborn  reso- 
lution they  might  display  in  defence. 

He  was  a  prisoner.  Wit  and  strength  and 
courage  of  men  had  failed.  Chance  only 
would  determine  his  fate  and  theirs.  No,  not 
chance — Almighty  God!  The  boy  prayed  as 
he  crouched  down  there,  revolver  in  hand, 
as  he  had  never  prayed  before.  The  Indians 
were  very  deliberate.  The  soldier  remem- 
bered that  the  hillock  whence  he  had  de- 
scended to  the  ravine  seemed  to  be  the  highest 
for  miles  around.  They  appeared  to  be  sur- 
veying the  country,  he  gathered.  With  senses 
keenly  on  the  alert,  scraps  of  words  here  and 
there  were  all  he  could  understand.  He  de- 
cided that  they  were  riding  around  the  top  of 
the  hill  and  looking  in  every  direction  for 
some  trace  of  him ! 

He  was  thankful  that  for  the  last  mile  he 
had  gone  down  a  ravine,  which  was  rocky,  so 
that  he  had  left  no  "sign"  for  these  keenest  of 
trailers.  They  had  not  chanced  upon  any 
marks  of  his  progress  across  the  open  coun- 
try, they  had  not  picked  up  his  trail  anywhere, 
and  they  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  ravine  so 
close  at  hand,  perhaps  because  they  could  see 


118       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

at  a  glance  into  every  part  of  it  from  where 
they  were,  except  just  that  very  spot  where  the 
soldier  crouched  down. 

He  berated  himself  for  his  dereliction,  in 
the  midst  of  his  prayers,  because  he  had  gone 
to  sleep,  but  when  he  came  to  think  of  it,  the 
very  fact  that  he  had  slept  there  was  what 
probably  saved  him,  for  he  had  chanced  into 
the  one  spot  in  the  vicinity  invisible  from  that 
hill.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  his  nap  had  been  a 
very  short  one,  half  an  hour  at  the  outside,  he 
decided  as  he  glanced  at  the  sun  while  he 
waited  alike  helpless  and  almost  hopeless. 

The  suspense  was  becoming  unbearable. 
He  thought  that  if  nothing  else  discovered  his 
presence,  the  wild  beating  of  his  heart,  which 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  roll  of  a  drum, 
would  certainly  betray  him.  The  sweat 
beaded  his  brow.  There  was  no  mirror  at 
hand  to  tell  him  how  he  looked,  but  his  face 
was  as  white  as  the  alkali  patches  over  which 
he  had  walked;  yet  his  eyes  blazed  and  his 
mouth  was  closed  in  the  tense,  set  line  of  high 
resolution. 

He  had  taken  a  chew  of  tobacco  before  he 
dozed,  and  the  wonder  was  that  it  had  not 


DANNY'S  DOUBLE  ESCAPE  119 

choked  Mm  while  he  slept.  It  tasted  suddenly 
bitter  in  his  dry  mouth,  and  he  made  up  his 
mind  at  once  to  discard  it,  when  a  new  and 
more  terrible  peril  was  added  to  the  dangers 
encompassing  him.  He  had  his  head  turned 
up  staring  at  the  top  of  the  bank  a  few  feet 
above  it,  expecting  every  moment  to  see  the 
skyline  blotted  out  by  the  figure  of  an  Indian. 
They  were  talking  furiously  now,  and  evi- 
dently debating  some  question  hotly,  when  into 
the  man's  strained  mind  penetrated  a  slight, 
sibilant  hissing  sound  full  of  menace.  It 
came  from  the  left  of  him  and  he  recognized 
instantly  with  a  thrill  of  horror  as  he  turned 
his  head  in  that  direction  that  he  was  about 
to  be  attacked  by  a  rattlesnake! — the  deadly 
crotalus  pyrrlius,  the  rare  and  most  venemous 
red  variety. 

There,  a  few  feet  away  from  him,  the  hid- 
eous monster  was  coiled.  His  head  was  pro- 
truded and  his  body  ready  for  a  spring.  It 
would  have  been  easy  for  the  trooper  to  have 
shot  the  head  off  the  snake  or  to  have  sprung 
back  and  then  cut  it  in  two  with  the  axe  or 
even  to  have  battered  it  to  death  with  a  stone, 
but  if  he  made  the  slightest  move  the  Indians 


120       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

would  hear  him.  And  if  he  did  nothing  to 
protect  himself,  the  snake  would  strike. 
Either  way  meant  horrible  death. 

He  was  filled  with  horror,  but  his  mind 
worked  quicker  than  the  snake  could  spring, 
that  is  to  say,  like  the  lightning  flash.  That 
plug  of  tobacco  which  he  was  about  to  spit  out 
saved  him.  It  was  the  only  weapon  at  his 
command.  He  worked  his  jaws  furiously  for 
a  second  or  two  and  then  he  suddenly  thrust 
his  face  as  near  the  snake  as  he  could  without 
moving  his  body  or  making  a  sound.  The 
reptile  had  not  shaken  his  rattles  yet;  if  he 
had,  that  would  have  been  as  bad  as  a  rifle 
shot,  for  it  would  have  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  Indians,  and  one  of  them  would  have 
ridden  over  to  the  ravine  to  kill  it.  Before  the 
snake  could  move,  before  he  could  make  the 
spring  for  which  he  was  coiled,  before  he 
could  shake  that  cluster  of  rattles  on  his  tail, 
the  soldier  spat  out. 

The  mouth  and  eyes  of  the  snake  were  filled 
with  tobacco  juice.  The  effect  was  surprising. 
The  bewildered  creature,  his  eyes  and  mouth 
smarting,  with  a  venom  and  a  poison  the  like 
of  which  he  had  never  experienced,  fell  back- 


DANNY'S  DOUBLE  ESCAPE 

ward  blindly  writhing  and  glided  noiselessly 
away.  The  trooper  could  have  shrieked  in 
the  nervous  reaction.  It  was  only  by  the  most 
terrific  effort  that  he  kept  from  crying  aloud 
as  his  body  shook  and  trembled  with  the  awful 
strain.  He  felt  that  it  was  all  up  with  him. 
He  could  control  himself  no  longer.  For  a 
moment  he  had  an  impulse  to  rise  and  shout 
and  fight. 

The  next  instant  the  Indians  above  him  on 
the  hillock  got  in  motion.  The  listener  heard 
words  here  and  there.  The  pomes'  feet  thud- 
ded on  the  soft  ground  and  away  they  gal- 
loped. He  listened  for  a  few  moments,  to  be 
sure  that  they  were  riding  from  and  not  to- 
ward him,  and  then  collapsed  utterly  in  the 
ravine.  He  lay  there  on  his  face  shivering  and 
shaking  and  sobbing  like  a  girl.  He  had  es- 
caped by  the  providence  of  God  and  his  own 
wit  two  of  the  deadliest  perils  of  the  West— 
the  Indian  and  the  rattlesnake.  The  venom- 
ous serpent  was  still  writhing  in  the  bottom 
of  the  ravine  some  distance  off,  blind  and  over- 
whelmed by  the  acrid  tobacco  juice. 

Danny  lay  limp  and  helpless  until  the  sound 
of  the  footsteps  died  away.  He  listened  for 


122       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

some  time  thereafter  before  making  a  move, 
for  one  of  the  Indians  might  have  been  left 
on  the  hillock  as  a  watchman,  but  he  heard 
absolutely  no  sound.  Finally  he  cautiously 
raised  his  head  and  peered  over  the  edge  of 
the  ravine.  There  was  no  one  there.  The 
hillock  shut  off  the  view  of  the  direction  in 
which  the  Indians  had  gone.  He  stood  up  and 
looked  about  him.  He  was  alone  once  more. 

He  took  a  huge  stone  and  put  the  snake  out 
of  its  misery,  cut  the  rattles  off  as  a  souvenir 
of  his  peril,  and  then  on  his  hands  and  knees 
he  climbed  the  hillock.  Away  off  to  the  south- 
ward he  saw  a  little  group  of  Indians.  They 
appeared  to  be  galloping  back  in  the  direction 
of  the  camp  whence  they  had  come.  He  sur- 
mised they  had  been  sent  to  get  him,  and  hav- 
ing failed  to  find  his  trail,  had  gone  back  to- 
ward the  canyon  in  hope  that  they  might  in- 
tercept him  there. 

It  seemed  to  the  soldier  that  now  at  last  he 
was  free  from  any  further  perils.  He  de- 
scended the  hillock  to  the  ravine,  which  hap- 
pened to  run  in  his  direction.  He  picked  up 
his  rifle  and  axe  and  ran  desperately  down  it. 
When  it  bent  to  the  northward  he  left  it.  He 


DANNY'S  DOUBLE  ESCAPE 

climbed  another  hill  and  once  more  surveyed 
the  country  and  found  he  was  still  alone.  He 
decided  that  he  would  make  a  run  for  the  post. 
He  broke  into  a  long,  easy  dog-trot,  which  he 
had  learned  from  the  Indians,  and  at  high 
noon  he  stopped,  panting,  exhausted,  dust-cov- 
ered, his  throat  parched,  his  legs  heavy  as 
lead,  before  the  gate  of  the  wooden  stockade  of 
Fort  Sullivan. 


IX 


SETS    FOETH    THE    DEPAETUEE    OF 

THE  FIEST  SQUADEON  TO  EE- 

LIEVE  THE  BESIEGED 

THE  sentry  on  the  tower  at  the  corner  of 
the  big  stockade  discovered  the  ap- 
proach of  Danny  Meagher  while  he  was 
yet  a  great  way  off.  He  saw  that  the  new- 
comer was  running  hard,  and  from  his  waver- 
ing and  uncertain  gait  it  was  evident  that  he 
had  been  running  a  long  time,  and  was  almost 
at  the  end  of  his  strength.  The  sentry 
watched  him  for  a  few  moments  and  then 
carefully  scrutinized  the  far  horizon  back  of 
the  rapidly  approaching  figure.  If  there  were 
Indians  in  his  rear  it  would  account  for  the 
apparently  desperate  effort  of  the  man  to 
reach  the  post,  toward  which  he  was  heading. 
But  there  was  not  a  solitary  figure  to  be  seen 
upon  the  horizon,  except  the  runner. 

There  was  a  field  glass  handy.    The  sentry 
seized  it,  focused  it,  and  looked  for  a  long 

134 


TO  THE  RESCUE  125 

time.  He  made  out  that  the  man  was  clothed 
in  a  brown  leather  hunting  suit,  although  he 
appeared  to  be  carrying  the  rifle  of  a  soldier. 
At  first  it  popped  into  the  sentry's  mind  that 
it  might  be  old  Marnette,  of  w^hose  departure 
every  one  was  aware,  but  the  glass  negatived 
that  idea.  The  soldier  could  see  that  the  man 
was  white  and  that  was  all. 

As  the  runner  drew  nearer  the  sentry  turned 
and  called  the  corporal  of  the  guard.  That 
worthy  forthwith  joined  him  on  the  observa- 
tion platform  and  after  steady  staring  decided 
that  the  matter  was  of  sufficient  importance 
to  be  referred  to  the  sergeant  of  the  guard. 
He,  in  turn,  reported  it  to  the  young  officer  of 
the  day,  who  made  haste  to  join  the  others  on 
the  platform. 

Now,  within  the  somewhat  restricted  limits 
of  the  stockade  everything  that  went  on  was 
more  or  less  public  property.  The  successive 
appearance  of  the  various  persons  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  observation  tower  was  noticed  by 
one  and  then  another  and  finally  by  everybody. 
The  officers  and  men  at  once  sought  places 
whence  they  could  see  what  was  happening. 
Finally  old  General  Allenby,  the  commander 


126       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

of  the  regiment,  himself  came  out  of  his  quar- 
ters with  the  adjutant,  and,  suddenly  aware  of 
the  unusual  excitement,  stopped  by  the  foot 
of  the  tower  and  hailed  to  know  what  was 
toward. 

"There's  a  runner  coming  in,  sir." 

"A  soldier?"  asked  the  general. 

"We  don't  know,  sir.  He  doesn't  wear  a 
uniform.  Sergeant  Peters  thinks  he  recog- 
nizes him.  He  will  be  here  in  a  moment." 

"Let  us  go  out  of  the  gate,  Mr.  Tyson," 
said  the  general  to  the  adjutant.  "We  can 
afford  to  take  chances  with  one  man,"  he 
continued,  smiling  grimly,  for  his  regiment 
had  been  roughly  handled  by  the  Indians,  and 
the  men  had  been  never  so  thankful  as  when 
they  reached  Fort  Sullivan  only  yesterday 
night  with  their  wounded  and  sick,  chief  of 
whom  was  Major  Compton,  who  was  still 
alive,  although  that  was  about  all  that  could 
be  said  of  him.  The  two  officers  ordered  the 
gate  unbarred  and  opened  and  stepped  with- 
out. By  this  time  the  messenger  was  close 
at  hand.  The  general  stared  at  him.  There 
was  something  familiar  about  him.  But  it  was 
Tyson,  before  whom  Danny  had  appeared 


TO  THE  RESCUE  127 

more  than  once  for  various  small  evidences  of 
his  ebullient  spirits,  who  recognized  him. 

"That  will  be  Trooper  Meagher  of  Gal- 
more  's  troop,  sir." 

The  general  threw  his  head  back  toward  the 
gate.  Several  officers  were  coming  through  to 
join  the  commander.  He  recognized  the  man 
he  sought. 

"Captain  Calmore,"  he  cried  sharply. 

"Sir." 

"You  know  that  man?" 

Calmore  took  a  long  look. 

"  It 's  Trooper  Meagher,  although  what  he  is 
doing  without  his  uniform  I  don't  know." 

"Was  he  one  of  Sergeant  McNeil's  detach- 
ment!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Umph!"  said  the  general.  "Looks  bad. 
Better  have  the  assembly  sounded,  Mr.  Tyson, 
and  then  officers'  call.  Now,  my  man,  what  is 
it?"  he  continued,  facing  Meagher  as  TysoD 
turned  away  to  carry  out  the  command. 

Danny  Meagher  was  fairly  dropping  from 
fatigue.  He  was  pale  as  death.  His  eyes 
were  bloodshot.  His  face  was  covered  with 
sweat  and  dust,  and  he  was  in  a  state  of  almost 


128       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

complete  exhaustion.  He  did  not  realize  until 
lie  stopped  at  what  a  desperate  pace  he  had 
covered  the  last  half  dozen  miles  of  his  jour- 
ney. By  a  brave  effort  he  drew  himself  up, 
brought  his  moccasined  heels  together,  raised 
his  hand,  and  saluted  like  a  good  soldier.  The 
general  promptly  acknowledged  the  courtesy. 

"Out  with  it,"  he  said. 

' 'For  the  Lord's  sake,  sor,"  whispered 
Danny  with  parched  lips,  "  could  I  have  a 
drink  !" 

" Water,  here,"  cried  the  general,  "and 
whiskey.  The  man's  nearly  done  for.  Here, 
my  man" — he  pointed  to  a  pile  of  wood  on 
the  side  of  the  trail  left  there  by  one  of  the 
logging  parties — "sit  down." 

"Thank  you,  sor,"  said  Danny,  taking  a 
long  pull  from  one  of  the  canteens  offered 
him.  "I  come  from  Sergeant  McNeil." 

"Yes,  where  is  he?" 

"About  ten  miles  from  the  mouth  av  Turkey 
Creek  Canyon,  at  the  Big  Meadows,  sor,"  was 
the  answer. 

"Go  on." 

"When  I  left  he  was  camped  on  a  shelf  av 
rock  overlookin'  the  meadows,  an'  there  was 


TO  THE  RESCUE  129 

five  hundred  Sioux  an'  Cheyennes  attacMn' 
him,  sor." 

"Good  God!"  exclaimed  Captain  Calmore 
amid  a  general  movement  of  astonishment  and 
alarm. 

The  general  threw  up  his  hand  for  silence. 

"What  time  did  you  leave f" 

"Jist  at  dark  last  night,  sor." 

"It's  all  of  forty  miles,"  said  the  general, 
who  knew  the  country  like  a  book.  ' '  You  have 
come  through  in  quick  time." 

"Sergeant  McNeil  bid  me  say,  sor,  wid  his 
respectful  compliments,  that  he'd  hould  the 
place  as  long  as  there  was  a  man  alive,  sor,  an' 
then  shoot  the  women  an'  children,  an'— 

"I  know  McNeil,"  said  the  general  quickly. 
"He  will  do  what  he  said." 

"I  know  him,  too,"  came  from  Calmore 
amid  a  chorus  of  hearty  approval  from  the 
other  officers. 

"He  directed  me  to  say,  sor,  that  if  you'd 
plaise  come  as  quick  as  you  can,  it'd  be  helpful 
to  the  women,  of  which  there  are  three,  Mrs. 
Compton,  his  wife,  an'  his  daughter,  an'  per- 
haps, praise  be  to  God,  there  is  another  wan  by 
now,  although  she  might  be  a  boy. ' ' 


130       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  the  general 
sharply. 

"If  the  general  plaises,  Mrs.  Compton " 

began  Danny. 

"Oh,  I  recollect, "  said  the  general.  "Great 
heavens,  what  a  situation !" 

"An'  he  said,  sor,  would  you  plaise  send  a 
dochtor  wid  the  relievin'  force?" 

The  general  nodded  again.  Back  in  the  fort 
the  bugles  were  ringing  the  assembly,  the  old 
call  preparatory  to  action,  and  as  its  cadences 
died  away  it  was  followed  by  the  officers'  call. 

"Meet  me  at  my  office,  gentlemen,  and  one 
or  two  of  you  see  that  this  man  is  well  cared 
for,  and  fetch  him  over  to  headquarters  as 
soon  as  he  is  able  to  move." 

"I'm  able  to  go  along  wid  the  general  now, 
sor,"  said  Danny  stoutly,  rising  to  his  feet  in- 
domitably. 

"Good,"  said  the  general.  "Come  along. 
You  have  done  well.  I'll  hear  the  details  of 
your  story  later." 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said  to  the  officers  whom 
he  met  at  his  office  a  little  later — most  of  them 
had  heard  his  little  colloquy  with  the  messen- 
ger, by  the  way — "Sergeant  McNeil's  detach- 


TO  THE  RESCUE  131 

ment  and  Major  Compton's  wife  and  Bridget 
and  Molly  McNeil  and  the  valuable  little 
wagon  train  are  attacked  in  heavy  force. 
How  many  did  you  say  there  were?" 

"They  looked  like  a  million  to  me,  sor," 
answered  Meagher,  "but  ould  Marnette— 

"Oh,  did  he  get  there?"  interrupted  Gal- 
more. 

"  Yis,  sor,  after  bein'  wounded,  but  not  bad. 
He  said  there  was  about  five  hundred  av  'em 
—warriors,  that  is — wid  their  women  an'  chil- 
dren. ' ' 

"McNeil  entrenched  himself,  of  course?" 

"Yis,  sor." 

"How?" 

' '  Behind  the  wagon  beds  on  a  shelf  opposite 
the  Big  Meadows  in  Turkey  Creek  Canyon." 

"I  know  the  place,"  said  Calmore. 

"And  I — and  I—      ''  repeated  the  others. 

"We  can  trust  McNeil  to  uphold  the  honor 
of  the  regiment  and  defend  the  place  to  the 
last  extremity.  Trooper  Meagher  left  last 
night " 

"Fine  work,  sir,"  said  Calmore. 

"Very.  It  must  be  thirty  miles  as  the  crow 
flies,  and  forty  miles  across  country.  I  pro- 


132       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

pose  to  send  the  four  troops  of  the  first  squad- 
ron— Compton's — to  rescue  the  party.  Va- 
cancies caused  by  illness  or  wounds  will  be 
filled  from  the  second  squadron." 

The  officers  of  the  first  squadron  broke  into 
spontaneous  cheers.  Those  of  the  second 
looked  very  glum  and  disappointed. 

"The  second  bore  the  brunt  of  the  fighting 
last  month,"  continued  the  general,  as  his 
eyes  swept  the  room  filled  with  officers.  '  *  Cap- 
tain Calmore,  you  haven't  had  the  chance  for 
active  service  the  others  have  enjoyed — to 
you  the  command.  Surgeon  Ormond,  you  will 
go  with  the  party.  Take  whatever  you  may 
need  for  the  unusual  demand  you  are  certain 
to  meet." 

" Thank  you,  general,"  exclaimed  the  de- 
lighted Calmore. 

"How  about  your  horses  and  the  train 
mules!"  continued  the  general,  turning  to 
Meagher. 

"We  had  to  turn  'em  loose  in  the  meadow, 
sor.  The  Injuns  got  'em  all. 

"Umph,  I  suppose  so.  Well,  we'll  have  to 
use  the  troop  horses  to  bring  back  the  wagons. 
I  can't  send  any  mules  along  because  I  want 


TO  THE  RESCUE  183 

you  to  go  fast,  Calmore.  You  can  take  your 
time  returning  with  the  wounded. " 

"Am  I  to  go  now,  sir?"  asked  Calmore 
eagerly. 

"Instantly,"  said  the  general.  "And  re- 
member that  your  orders  are  to  rescue  that 
party  and  bring  them  back,  and  not  to  be 
led  into  pursuit  of  the  Indians.  That  will  be 
task  enough  for  you  or  anybody." 

"I  understand,  sir,"  said  Captain  Calmore. 

"Mr.  Tyson,"  said  the  general,  "you  will 
prepare  the  orders.  The  men  will  carry  every- 
thing they  need  on  their  persons,  or  in  their 
saddlebags,  no  baggage  train,  and,  Calmore,  I 
am  doubtful  whether  you  will  get  there  in 
time  at  best,  but  spare  neither  man  nor  horse 
so  long  as  you  keep  the  command  together. 
Five  hundred  Indians  is  no  small  task  even  for 
two  hundred  and  forty  of  ours  to  attempt.  It 
is  probably  a  band  from  Crazy  Horse's  com- 
mand, and  we  know  how  they  can  fight. ' ' 

"If  the  general  plaises,"  said  Meagher, 
"but  Marnette  said  it  was  Dull  Knife's  band." 

"And  that  old  rascal  is  one  of  the  best. 
We'll  never  have  peace  along  the  frontier  as 
long  as  he's  alive." 


134       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

'  i  Have  you  any  orders,  general  1"  asked 
Calmore. 

"None,"  answered  the  general.  "I  leave 
everything  to  you." 

Calmore  saluted  and  ran  from  the  room, 
followed  by  all  of  the  officers  of  the  first 
squadron.  As  it  happened,  the  captain  of  one 
of  the  troops  was  wounded,  the  captains  of  two 
other  troops  were  on  detached  service,  and 
the  remaining  troop  was  Calmore 's  own.  In- 
deed, it  was  the  absence  of  these  other  sol- 
diers which  permitted  the  command  to  be 
given  to  so  young  a  captain  as  Calmore.  He 
had  under  him  a  group  of  youngsters,  lieuten- 
ants, hard  riders,  and  gallant  fighters,  just  the 
crowd  for  a  dash  and  a  fight. 

The  men  of  the  regiment  were  already 
drawn  up  outside  on  the  parade  ground.  Cal- 
more briefly  communicated  the  general's  or- 
ders to  the  first  squadron,  then  he  ordered  the 
men  to  break  ranks  and  go  to  their  quarters 
and  equip  themselves  for  the  expedition.  He 
allowed  them  ten  minutes  for  the  task.  Before 
he  dismissed  them  he  explained  what  that 
task  was,  what  they  were  expected  to  do. 

Now,  the  first  squadron  was  Compton  's  own, 


TO  THE  RESCUE  135 

and  every  man  felt  a  direct  personal  interest 
in  the  work  cut  out  for  him.  The  commander 
of  the  second  squadron  conferred  briefly  with 
Calmore  and  detailed  enough  men  to  fill  out 
the  vacancies  in  the  four  troops.  The  veteri- 
narians and  the  stable  sergeants  also  replaced 
every  horse  which  showed  any  signs  of  unfit- 
ness  for  the  hard  march  with  the  best  avail- 
able from  the  other  squadron. 

Calmore 's  own  preparations  were  soon  com- 
pleted. Booted  and  spurred  and  armed,  he 
was  ready  in  five  minutes.  There  was  one 
duty  he  had  to  perform.  The  hospital  was 
adjacent  to  his  quarters,  and  he  went  into 
Compton's  room.  That  officer  was  lying  com- 
pletely helpless  on  his  bed.  He  had  reached 
the  post  in  the  worst  possible  condition  he 
could  exhibit  and  still  be  alive,  but  one  day  in 
a  comfortable  bed  with  clean  linen,  warm 
water,  and  careful  nursing  had  already 
wrought  wonders. 

"I  heard  the  bugle  calls,"  he  whispered,  as 
his  trusty  junior  bent  over  his  bandaged  face, 
"and  then  cheering.  I  thought  first  that  Mc- 
Neil's party  had  got  in,  but  my  wife  has  not 
joined  me  and — what  is  it?" 


136       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

" It's  a  messenger  from  McNeil,  Compton," 
said  Calmore,  dropping  distinction  of  rank  in 
this  informal  intercourse  between  friends. 

"Yes?  What's  the  news!"  asked  the  major, 
his  thin  hand  clenched  but  his  voice  steady 
like  a  soldier's. 

' l  They  have  been  overtaken  by  a  large  band 
of  Sioux  and  Cheyennes." 

"How  many?" 

"Five  hundred." 

"And  McNeil  had  but  twenty  men  and  the 
drivers." 

"He  seems  to  have  acted  with  discretion  and 
courage  and  conduct,  for  he  entrenched  on 
that  shelf  in  the  canyon  by  the  Big  Meadows. 
The  messenger— 

"Who?" 

"Trooper  Meagher." 

"Good  boy!" 

* '  Got  in  ten  minutes  ago  with  an  appeal  for 
help." 

"And  my  wife?" 

"Well  and  cheerful  when  Meagher  left.  The 
general  has  given  me  command  of  the  first 
squadron,  ours.  We  are  to  ride  immediately 
to  bring  them  back." 


TO  THE  RESCUE  137 

"If  anybody  on  earth  can  do  it  you  can, 
Calmore,  and  the  troopers  of  that  squadron. 
Say  to  them  that  I  know  they  will  do  all  that 
officers  and  soldiers  can  do,  and  that  I  would 
almost  give  the  rest  of  my  life  to  go  along. 
My  soul  rides  with  them." 

"Your  spirit  will  animate  us,  old  friend," 
said  Calmore.  "And — keep  up  your  cour- 
age." 

6 '  Tell  my  wife,  if  you  get  there  in  time,  that 
I  am  living  just  to  see  her  again." 

"We'll  get  there  in  time.  I'll  tell  her. 
Good-bye." 

"God  bless  you!" 

Calmore  hurried  out  of  the  room.  His  or- 
derly was  walking  his  horse  up  and  down  in 
front  of  the  hospital.  He  sprang  into  the 
saddle  and  trotted  toward  his  command.  The 
general  and  the  officers,  who  were  to  remain 
behind  with  their  wives  and  children,  were 
grouped  around  the  gate.  The  other  squadron 
of  the  regiment  was  lined  up  on  the  opposite 
side  as  if  for  a  review.  The  band  was  out. 
The  old  general  loved  to  do  things  up  in  style. 
He  was  going  to  play  them  out  in  fine  form. 
Calmore  rode  to  the  head  of  the  squadron. 


138       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Men,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice,  "we  are 
to  ride  to  rescue  McNeil  and  his  detachment, 
our  comrades  in  thi^  squadron.  But  we  are 
to  ride  for  more  than  men.  There  are  women 
there.  McNeil's  wife  and  his  daughter  and 
the  wife  of  our  major.  He  would  give  his  life 
to  be  here.  He  sends  you  this  message:  'I 
know  that  you  will  do  all  that  officers  and 
soldiers  can  do,  and  my  soul  rides  with  you. 
I  know  that  if  anybody  on  earth  can  do  it,  you 
men  can. '  ' ' 

Amid  frantic  cheering,  Calmore  turned  to 
the  general  and  saluted. 

"Forward,  at  once!"  said  the  old  soldier, 
and  Calmore  gave  the  command  which  put  the 
squadron  in  column  and  motion. 

The  band  struck  up  the  famous  marching 
song  of  the  regiment.  At  a  walk  first,  then  at 
a  slow  trot,  the  detachment  passed  rapidly 
through  the  gates,  the  old  general  standing 
hand  in  salute  as  the  lean,  hard-bitten,  brown, 
weather-beaten  troopers  of  his  beloved  regi- 
ment rode  gallantly  forth  on  their  desperate 
errand. 

With  the  first  troop  of  the  squadron  rode 
Danny  Meagher.  He  had  appealed  directly 


TO  THE  RESCUE  139 

to  the  general  and  had  begged  to  be  allowed 
to  join  the  expedition. 

" Since  I  have  eaten  an'  drunk, "  said 
Danny,  "an'  since  I've  seen  the  squadron  com- 
ing, I  want  to  go  back  in  the  field.  I  feel  like 
a  new  man  already,  sor,  an'  I  can  ride  wid 
the  best  of  'em.  I  want  to  be  in  at  the  death, 
sor.  Why,  it'd  be  like  desartin'  the  command 
if  I  stayed  back  here  an'  rested.  There'll  be 
time  enough  to  rest  when  we've  rescued 
them." 

The  old  general  had  laughed  grimly.  It  was 
the  sort  of  spirit  he  liked. 

*  '  That 's  the  kind  of  men  I  want  in  my  regi- 
ment," he  said.  "You  shall  go,  Meagher,  and 
you  shall  have  the  best  horse  in  the  regiment 
to  carry  you." 

"Any  ould  thing  will  do  for  me  that  gits 
there,  sor,"  said  Danny. 

6 1  My  black  stallion  will  get  you  there, ' '  said 
the  general.  ' '  Orderly,  tell  the  stable  sergeant 
to  give  the  black  to  Trooper  Meagher." 

Tired  though  he  was,  Danny  was  grinning 
widely  from  the  back  of  the  general's  horse 
in  his  humble  place  in  the  ranks  of  the  troop 
which  trotted  by. 


HOW   THEY  AEEIVED   IN  THE  VERY 
NICK  OF  TIME 

CALMOEE  was  an  experienced  soldier. 
He  knew  that  he  had  a  long,  hard  ride 
before  him,  and  that  if  he  tired  his 
horses  out  at  the  beginning  he  would  pay  up 
for  it  before  he  got  through.  The  country  he 
had  to  traverse  was  execrable.  Over  the 
prairie  in  the  direction  of  Turkey  Creek  Can- 
yon there  was  scarcely  a  sign  of  a  road.  The 
land  was  rolling  and  broken  and  sandy,  in 
places  cut  by  ditches  and  as  the  result  of  the 
long  dry  season  now  covered  with  dust.  It 
was  thirty  miles  to  the  mouth  of  the  canyon, 
and  he  judged  he  could  not  possibly  reach  it 
before  dark.  Trail,  there  was  practically 
none. 

The  main  point  of  supply  was  on  another 
railroad  to  the  far  north  of  Fort  Sullivan. 
Very  few  things  were  sent  by  the  road  that 
ran  south  and  west,  and  the  canyon  was  not 

140 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME 

very  much  used.  Mrs.  Compton  had  come  that 
way  because  it  was  nearer  Omaha  and  quicker, 
and  the  little  emergency  wagon  train  had  been 
sent  that  way  for  the  same  purpose. 

In  some  places  it  would  be  necessary  to  go 
up  the  canyon  in  single  file  and  at  a  walk,  so 
bad  was  the  trail.  Although  he  had  the  pick 
of  the  horses,  they  were  by  no  means  fresh, 
for  the  regiment,  except  his  own  troop,  part  of 
which  was  with  McNeil,  had  been  in  the  field 
for  the  whole  of  the  summer,  and  the  men 
had  just  got  back  to  Fort  Sullivan  the  day  be- 
fore. Nothing  short  of  the  great  peril  that 
menaced  the  detachment  would  have  brought 
the  general  to  order  the  fagged-out  horses  and 
the  equally  worn  and  wearied  troopers  to  the 
field.  Even  if  the  horses  and  men  had  been 
fresh,  it  would  have  been  night  before  they 
could  reach  the  mouth  of  the  canyon.  In  their 
present  condition  it  would  undoubtedly  take 
much  longer. 

Calmore  could  not  allow  any  straggling. 
He  had  to  keep  his  command  closed  up,  and 
the  speed  of  it  was  the  speed  of  the  slowest 
horse.  If  they  had  all  been  in  as  fine  fettle  as 
the  general's  big  black  stallion,  so  proudly 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

bestrode  by  Trooper  Meagher,  there  would 
have  been  a  mad  race  across  the  country,  such 
as  romancers  love  to  dwell  upon,  and  the  party 
might  have  been  rescued  before  nightfall,  but 
in  real  life  things  do  not  happen  that  way. 
When  the  rolling  ground  was  firm  and  hard 
they  trotted,  when  it  was  sandy  and  heavy 
they  walked,  and  sometimes  they  walked  very 
slowly  indeed.  Occasionally  detours  to  get 
across  ditches  were  necessary. 

The  flankers  were  thrown  out,  a  scouting 
force  marched  ahead.  No  precautions  were 
neglected.  Six  o'clock  found  them  at  least  six 
miles  from  the  mouth  of  the  canyon.  The  foot- 
hills of  the  range  loomed  before  them  in  the 
growing  dusk  of  the  short  autumn  day,  while 
back  of  them  rose  the  snow-capped  peaks  of 
the  mighty  mountains  through  which  the  can- 
yon ran.  They  had  reached  the  big  spring 
beyond  the  buffalo  wallow,  and  here  Calmore 
made  a  halt,  that  the  men  might  eat  from  their 
haversacks  and  stretch  their  legs,  and  the 
horses  might  be  off-saddled,  watered,  and 
given  a  brief  rest.  Every  man  was  aching  to 
be  on  the  march,  Calmore  as  much  as  the 
others,  but  he  held  them  there  for  a  full  hour. 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME  143 

There  was  not  an  Indian  in  sight.  Fires 
were  kindled,  coffee  was  made,  the  men 
brought  out  their  pipes,  and,  except  those  on 
picket  duty,  they  all  stretched  themselves  out 
on  the  sand  for  a  very  much  needed  rest.  Cal- 
more  and  his  youthful  troop  commanders  had 
an  earnest  discussion  with  Trooper  Meagher, 
Danny's  topographical  eye  was  remarkable, 
and  he  could  explain  the  whole  situation. 
They  heard  for  the  first  time  the  details  of 
his  wonderful  escape  up  the  canyon,  his  mad 
ride  on  the  Indian  pony,  the  ruse  by 
which  he  discomfited  the  rattlesnake,  and  the 
narrowness  by  which  he  avoided  discovery  by 
the  Indians.  He  told  them  how  the  land  lay. 
He  even  traced  in  the  sand  a  map  of  the  shelf 
on  the  trail  overlooking  the  meadows. 

"I  wonder  how  it  would  do  to  send  one 
troop  along  the  north  wall  of  the  canyon  to 
go  down  where  Meagher  climbed  up  the  wall; 
while  the  rest  of  us  go  up  the  canyon  so  as  to 
take  them  behind  two  fires  ?"  asked  one  of 
the  juniors. 

"It  would  not  do  at  all,  sor,  savin'  your 
presence,  because  there's  Injuns  up  there,  a 
lot  of  'em,  an '  you  wouldn  't  git  by  'em  widout 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

a  fight,  an'  all  chances  of  surprise  would  be 
lost,"  the  young  trooper  ventured  to  reply. 

"True,  Meagher  is  right, "  said  Calmore. 
"Besides,  there  are  so  few  of  us  and  so  many 
of  them  that  I  dare  not  attempt  a  rescue  with 
a  divided  command.  Our  best  plan,  I  think, 
will  be  for  all  of  us  to  go  directly  to  the  mouth 
of  the  canyon,  to  drive  up  it  as  fast  as  we  can, 
and  when  we  get  to  the  meadows  open  out  and 
slam  into  them. ' ' 

"I  think  that's  the  better  way,"  said  the 
senior  troop  commander  present. 

"Well,  gentlemen,"  said  Calmore,  rising,  "I 
hate  to  do  it,  but  it  will  be  'boots  and  sad- 
dles.' " 

No  bugle  was  blown,  of  course,  but  the  word 
was  passed,  the  horses  were  brought  up  and 
saddled,  the  men  took  a  last  drink  at  the 
spring  and  filled  their  canteens,  the  horses 
were  given  another  watering,  and  at  the  word 
of  command  they  moved  off  again. 

Meagher,  who  naturally  knew  the  country 
better  than  most  of  the  others,  rode  in  advance 
by  the  side  of  Calmore.  It  had  grown  dark 
by  this  time,  and  progress  was  slower  than 
ever.  The  men  were  fretting  because  of  the 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME  145 

delay,  but  it  was  impossible  to  go  faster.  It 
was  nearly  ten  o'clock  before  they  reached  the 
mouth  of  the  canyon.  It  would  be  five  in  the 
morning  at  the  rate  they  were  going  before 
they  got  up  to  the  Big  Meadows. 

The  experienced  Indian  fighters  in  the  party 
knew  that  it  was  most  unusual  for  the  Indians 
to  attack  in  force  after  dark.  If  McNeil  had 
succeeded  in  beating  off  his  assailants  during 
the  day,  the  relief  might  reasonably  expect  to 
find  the  survivors  in  possession  of  the  place 
at  dawn.  They  did  not  linger  on  that  account, 
however,  but  pressed  resolutely  on.  Calmore 
and  the  soldier  who  seemed  made  of  iron — 
he  forgot  his  want  of  sleep  and  his  fatigue  as 
he  approached  nearer  the  conflict — rode  ever 
in  the  lead.  There  were  one  or  two  levels 
where  they  could  even  gallop.  Calmore  did 
not  spare  the  horses  now.  Being  now  almost 
within  striking  distance  he  gave  to  the  pur- 
suit everything  that  the  animals  had,  and  took 
advantage  of  every  bit  of  ground  to  come  on 
at  the  best  speed.  Still  there  were  places 
where  single  file  and  slow  walk  were  neces- 
sary in  the  narrowing,  ever  rising  canyon. 

At  midnight  halt  was  made  for  water  and 


146       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

a  fifteen-minute  rest,  although  the  horses  were 
not  unsaddled.  Half  the  distance  up  the  can- 
yon had  been  traversed,  but  the  other  half  was 
the  harder  part.  The  trail  steadily  ascended, 
and  the  increasingly  high  altitude  made  it 
more  and  more  difficult  to  move  rapidly,  and 
the  horses  grew  more  and  more  weary.  It  was 
four  o  'clock  in  the  morning  when  they  reached 
the  highest  point  in  the  trail.  Rounding  a 
sharp  bend  in  the  canyon  they  could  see  be- 
fore them  in  the  faint  glow  of  the  coming  dawn 
the  narrow  lower  end  of  the  meadow.  The 
plain  began  to  broaden  out  beyond  the  curve 
and  to  the  left,  the  southern  side.  A  few  rods 
ahead  of  them  there  was  an  easy  descent  to 
the  level  of  the  brook,  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  brook  grass  land  began,  which  presently 
developed  into  the  great  meadow. 

The  place  where  Calmore  and  Meagher 
stopped  was  the  last  spot  which  had  been  held 
by  Schmidt  and  his  detachment  to  delay  the 
Indians  while  the  camp  was  being  made  on  the 
shelf.  And  it  was  the  same  place  where  poor 
Seddon  had  been  captured.  Sentries  should 
have  been  posted  there,  but  possibly  because 
the  Indians  realized  that  they  could  seize  their 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME  147 

helpless  prey  in  the  morning  none  were  on 
watch.  Owing  to  the  intervening  cliff  and  the 
broken  out-jutting  north  wall  of  the  canyon, 
the  soldiers  could  not  see  the  barricade.  In 
fact  they  could  only  see  the  far  southern  por- 
tion of  the  meadow,  under  the  opposite  can- 
yon wall.  In  that  direction  faint  lights 
twinkled  in  the  valley,  embers  apparently  of 
dying  fires.  The  Indians  were  evidently  still 
there,  and  if  they,  the  soldiers  also. 

Calmore  was  far  in  advance  of  the  column 
trailing  in  single  file  for  a  mile  back  of  him. 
He  surveyed  the  country  critically.  He  deter- 
mined to  send  three  troops  and  a  half  down 
the  slope  to  cross  the  brook  and  gallop  up  the 
meadow.  The  other  half -troop  he  intended  to 
dismount  and  advance  along  the  trail  toward 
the  shelf.  The  troopers  headed  for  the  mea- 
dow would  have  to  make  a  big  detour  before 
they  got  to  the  meadow,  and  the  men  on  foot 
would  probably  make  as  good  time  as  the 
others.  As  fast  as  the  troopers  came  up  he 
sent  them  quickly  down,  and  halted  them  on 
the  little  level  of  grass  land. 

The  troops  were  facing  westward,  their 
backs  against  the  northeast  wall  of  the  canyon. 


148       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

The  sun  when  it  came  up  was  over  their  shoul- 
ders and  they  were  still  in  the  shadow,  so  they 
were  not  observed  by  any  one  in  the  Indian 
camp.  Indeed  the  only  place  they  could  be 
seen  from  the  Indian  camp  was  the  single 
spot  where  they  defiled  to  the  left  and  de- 
scended to  the  level  of  the  brook.  But  the  In- 
dians were  not  looking  or  expecting  any  enemy 
in  that  direction.  Those  on  the  brink  of  the 
canyon  above  could  see  nothing.  The  troopers, 
however,  could  see  the  Indian  encampment  as 
the  sun's  rays,  falling  over  the  top  of  the  can- 
yon, began  to  illuminate  the  valley. 

Calmore  waited  until  the  last  man  had 
passed.  He  had  got  his  dismounted  squad 
ready  for  its  march,  and  then  followed  by 
Meagher,  whom  he  had  made  his  orderly,  he 
was  about  to  ride  down  to  the  three  troops  and 
a  half  which  were  lined  up  and  ready  at  the 
beginning  of  the  meadow,  when  a  sudden  move- 
ment in  the  Indian  camp  caught  his  eye. 

"Look  yonder,  sor,"  said  Meagher  eagerly. 

In  his  excitement  he  touched  his  officer  on 
the  shoulder.  Calmore  and  the  trooper  saw 
the  Indians  mounting  their  ponies  and  ap- 
parently assembling  for  a  final  attack.  Many 


IN  THE  NICK  OP  TIME  149 

of  them  rushed  across  the  meadow  and  the 
sweetest  sound  that  ever  came  to  the  hearts 
of  those  men  was  the  crack  of  a  rifle  from  the 
mountainside.  There  was  evidently  some  one 
still  alive  in  that  barricade.  Thank  God,  they 
were  in  time! 

' '  You  know  what  you  have  to  do, ' '  said  Cal- 
more,  turning  to  the  dismounted  troopers 
under  Hadden,  their  lieutenant,  who  had  just 
come  from  West  Point  the  previous  June,  and 
had  seen  no  service.  "We'll  try  to  crowd 
them  over  against  the  bank.  Then  you  give 
it  to  them." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  said  Hadden,  saluting 
and  marching  off  at  the  head  of  his  platoon. 

1 '  No  firing  until  I  give  the  order, ' '  said  Cal- 
more  to  the  squadron.  "Now,  gentlemen, 
forward. ' ' 

At  a  slow  trot  the  little  command  in  a  col- 
umn of  fours  moved  up  the  narrow  valley. 
The  brook  and  the  tail  of  the  meadow,  as  it 
were,  swept  to  the  southward.  The  grass 
land,  which  was  fairly  green  and  firm  enough 
to  give  them  good  footing,  widened  so  that 
they  had  plenty  of  room  for  maneuvering. 
Just  as  they  reached  the  last  turn  before  the 


150      A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

meadow  Calmore  deployed  the  troops.  He 
formed  the  battalion  in  a  double  line  and  bade 
them  open  out  as  they  advanced  so  as  to  cover 
the  whole  width  of  the  valley.  He  shot  a 
glance  to  the  northward.  He  could  see  in  the 
shadows  that  Hadden's  detachment  was  about 
to  pass  the  last  bend  and  enter  the  valley 
where  they  would  be  in  plain  sight.  He  de- 
cided to  wait  a  moment  or  two,  believing  that 
the  Indians  might  be  attracted  by  the  appar- 
ently small  numbers  of  the  relief  force  to  at- 
tack them  on  the  open  face  of  the  cliff.  He 
rode  down  the  lines  explaining  what  he  wanted 
the  men  to  do  and  what  he  hoped  to  effect. 

"When  I  give  the  word  I  want  you  to  trot 
until  you  get  to  that  bend.  When  you  get 
around  it,  ride  like  blazes  right  at  them. 
Don't  use  pistols  or  sabres  until  you  come  to 
close  quarters." 

He  rode  forward  until  he  could  see  down 
the  valley,  which  was  now  filling  with  smoke 
from  a  continuous  discharge.  Sure  enough 
the  Indians  caught  sight  of  Hadden's  little 
party.  They  swerved  off  to  their  left  and  gal- 
loped rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  little  band 
now  revealed  in  all  its  small  numbers  in  full 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME  151 

view.  Hadden's  men  sought  cover  and  pro- 
tection behind  boulders  on  the  trail  and  waited. 
As  the  Indians  drew  nearer  they  coolly  pre- 
pared to  open  fire. 

The  crash  of  the  first  discharge  was  Cal- 
more's  signal.  He  turned  and  lifted  his  hand. 
The  Indians  were  in  plain  view.  As  the  line 
swung  across  the  valley  Calmore  gave  the 
command  to  fire.  A  withering  rifle  volley 
swept  over  the  meadow,  and  then  into  the 
smoke  the  troopers  threw  themselves  at  full 
speed,  yelling  like  mad  and  driving  the  spurs 
into  their  horses'  flanks  and  getting  such 
swiftness  out  of  the  tired  animals  as  no  one 
would  have  supposed  them  capable  of  after 
all  they  had  gone  through. 

At  the  same  instant  Hadden  's  men  rose,  and 
recklessly  exposing  themselves,  fired  volley 
after  volley.  The  Indians,  assailed  on  both 
sides  and  completely  surprised,  were  driven 
into  a  bunch  which  afforded  a  splendid  target. 
But  there  were  soldiers — generals  that  is — 
among  the  Indians  as  well.  They  had  been 
surprised  and  attacked  at  a  great  disadvan- 
tage. They  had  no  further  stomach  for  a 
close  fight.  The  losses  of  the  few  hot  moments 


152       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

of  that  morning  together  with  those  that  had 
been  inflicted  by  the  gallant  defence  had  seri- 
ously depleted  their  ranks.  Flight  was  their 
only  desire.  Yet  there  were  women  and  chil- 
dren and  herds  that  had  to  be  protected.  They 
scattered  out  and  as  the  impetus  of  the  charge 
spent  itself  they  withdrew  in  fair  order,  skir- 
mishing bravely  and  contesting  every  foot  of 
the  ground.  They  were  better  mounted  than 
the  soldiers,  and  better  armed,  and  they  cir- 
cled around  with  dazzling  swiftness,  keeping 
up  a  continuous  fire,  while  slowly  and  steadily 
giving  back. 

The  valley  rang  with  rifle  shots  and  was 
soon  covered  with  smoke.  The  squaws  needed 
no  urging.  Indeed  tepees  had  already  been 
struck,  for  the  Indians  knew  that  they  could 
finish  the  defenders  on  the  shelf  in  the  morn- 
ing and  they  had  made  their  preparations 
to  get  out.  Skirmishing  and  holding  back  the 
charge  and  fighting  hard,  and  they  were  at 
hand-to-hand  grips  for  part  of  the  time  here 
and  there,  the  brave,  if  savage,  warriors 
finally  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  their 
women  and  children  and  herds  escaping  up  the 
canyon.  They  halted  in  the  narrow  gorge 


IN  THE  NICK  OF  TIME  153 

above  the  meadows  and  here  the  chiefs  dis- 
mounted their  men  and  prepared  for  a  des- 
perate defence,  if  assailed. 

Calmore  would  have  liked  nothing  better 
than  to  have  carried  the  place  by  assault,  but 
there  were  already  a  dozen  riderless  horses  in 
his  squadron  and  there  were  many  men  who 
clung  to  their  saddles  helplessly  from  wounds 
more  or  less  severe.  Contenting  himself  with 
throwing  out  a  line  of  skirmishers  lest  the  In- 
dians should  attempt  to  return  to  the  meadow, 
which  they  showed  no  disposition  to  do,  he 
rode  toward  the  shelf  which  had  been  the 
scene  of  so  memorable  a  defence. 


XI 

WHEREIN  THE  BABY  IS  INTEODUCED 
TO  HEE  FATHEE 

E~AVING  the  task  of  gathering  up  the 
stray  horses  which  had  escaped  from  the 
Indian  herd,  of  seizing  and  destroying 
the  Indian  camp,  and  securing  the  valley 
against  any  possible  return  of  the  Indian 
charge  to  his  subordinates,  Calmore,  followed 
by  Meagher,  who  stuck  to  his  heels,  galloped 
to  the  trail  and  joined  Hadden,  with  whom  Dr. 
Ormond  had  marched,  and  whose  men  were 
sent  back  for  the  horses.  The  three  officers 
and  the  trooper,  all  having  dismounted,  ran 
toward  the  barricade. 

It  was  as  still  as  death  behind  the  splintered, 
bullet-torn  ring  of  wagon  beds. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Calmore,  struggling  over 
the  rocky  pass,  "if  there's  anybody  alive. " 

"I  hope  we're  not  too  late,"  said  Hadden, 

The  next  moment  the  four  men  stopped, 
petrified.  The  battle  had  moved  far  up  the 

154 


THE  BABY  AND  HER  FATHER   155 

meadows.  The  distant  crack  of  a  few  random 
rifle  shots  could  be  heard,  but  it  was  painfully 
still  in  the  barricade  save  for  one  sound  that 
came  from  it  and  that  was  a  cry  with  which 
most  of  the  men,  for  they  were  all  bachelors, 
were  strangely  unfamiliar  and  yet  it  was  un- 
mistakable. It  was  the  cry  of  a  baby.  The 
four  looked  at  one  another. 

4 'There  is  one  living/'  said  Calmore,  start- 
ing forward. 

"You  got  here  too  late,  doc,"  said  Hadden. 
"Somebody  else  was  on  the  job." 

"That  will  be  Bridget  McNeil,  sor,"  said 
Meagher. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  doctor.  "I 
guess  there'll  be  plenty  of  work  for  me." 

"We  will  soon  find  out,"  said  Calmore. 

He  scrambled  over  the  wagon  bed,  passing 
the  dead  Indians  who  had  been  shot  when 
Molly  had  given  the  alarm.  No  effort  had 
been  made  to  dispose  of  their  bodies,  of  course. 

"It's  been  a  fearfully  near  thing,"  he  said 
to  his  companions  as  he  leaped  down  into  the 
little  enclosure.  "And  these  men  will  never 
be  forgotten." 

The  little  barricade  was  lined  with  dead, 


156       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

dying,  desperately  wounded  men.  They 
were  mostly  in  their  places,  where  they  had 
been  shot,  rifles  and  pistols  by  their  sides, 
their  heads  pointed  toward  the  meadow.  The 
few  wounded  earlier  in  the  fight  had  been 
dragged  to  the  rear.  There  was  not  a  man  in 
the  enclosure  who  had  not  been  hurt.  Three 
or  four,  badly  wounded,  lay  on  their  backs 
staring  upward.  A  few  feeble  moans  broke 
from  their  lips.  Those  who  were  conscious 
stifled  them.  They  did  not  want  to  alarm  Mrs. 
Compton,  it  appeared  afterward. 

Sitting  on  the  ground,  his  empty  Winchester 
across  his  knee,  his  revolver  in  his  hand,  his 
back  against  the  ambulance  bed  and  the  top  of 
his  head  bound  with  a  bloody  bandage,  his  lips 
white,  his  eyes  blazing,  was  Sergeant  McNeil. 
Half  reclining  on  his  elbow,  revolver  in  hand, 
lay  Scout  Marnette.  In  addition  to  the  first 
wound  in  his  side,  he  had  been  shot  in  the  leg 
and  could  not  walk.  With  a  broken  arm,  his 
revolver  clasped  in  his  right  hand,  Corporal 
Schmidt  was  leaning  his  breast  heavily  against 
a  rock.  All  three  of  the  men  were  close  by  the 
ambulance.  It  was  quite  evident  that  they 
intended  to  sell  their  lives  dearly  if  the  In- 


THE  BABY  AND  HER  FATHER   157 

dians  broke  in,  which  the  four  new-comers 
were  certain  they  would  have  done  in  another 
half  hour  if  the  relief  party  had  not  arrived. 

Just  in  front  of  the  parted  entrance  of  the 
ambulance  stood  Bridget  McNeil.  Clinging  to 
her  skirts  was  a  much-dishevelled,  very  badly 
frightened  little  girl,  her  arm  in  a  sling,  and 
a  bloody  scratch  across  her  cheek.  Bridget 
McNeil  stood  erect  and  apparently  unharmed. 
In  her  right  hand  she  had  a  Winchester  rifle, 
in  her  left  she  carefully  clasped  to  her  breast 
an  odd-shaped  bundle,  and,  as  the  officers 
stared,  from  that  bundle  came  again  that 
strange  cry.  Calmore  took  off  his  cap  as  he 
had  stood  in  the  presence  of  a  nobler  than 
Queen  Guinevere  or  more  knightly  souls  than 
those  that  sat  with  King  Arthur  about  the 
table  round. 

McNeil  made  an  effort  to  rise,  failed, 
dropped  the  revolver,  raised  his  hand  to  his 
head. 

"I  have  to  report,  sor,"  he  said  hoarsely, 
"that  we  have  been  in  action  wid  Dull  Knife's 
band  of  Sioux  an'  Cheyennes.  We  have 
bate  them  off,  sor,  wid  heavy  loss  to  them  an' 
to  ourselves;  the  women  an'  children,  barrin' 


158       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

a  slight  wound  or  two  to  the  young  one  yonder, 
who  would  take  part  in  the  fighting  are  safe. 
We  had  to  let  the  horses  an'  mules  go,  sor,  an' 
the  thrain— 

"McNeil,"  said  Calmore,  "there  has  not 
been  a  more  gallant  defence  in  the  whole  his- 
tory of  the  United  States  Army.  Where  is 
Mrs.  Compton?" 

"She's  here,  sor,"  said  Bridget,  "an* 
wantin'  a  doctor  mighty  bad." 

Calmore  and  Surgeon  Ormond  stepped  to 
the  ambulance. 

"Mrs.  Compton,"  said  Calmore,  the  sur- 
geon parted  the  curtains  and  crept  within,  "I 
only  want  to  say  you  are  safe  now. ' ' 

' i  Thank  God ! ' '  whispered  Marion  Compton 
faintly,  "and  the  brave  men  who  held  the 
pass." 

"You  may  well  say  that.  Now,  here  is  the 
doctor,  to  do  for  you  what  he  can." 

But  the  major's  brave  wife,  looking  deathly 
white  and  most  ethereally  lovely,  waved  the 
doctor  away. 

"Bridget  McNeil  has  taken  care  of  me.  I 
can  wait,  doctor.  I  know  there  are  men  out 
there,  though  they  stifle  their  groans,  who 


THE  BABY  AND  HER  FATHER       159 

need  you  more  than  I.  See,"  she  said,  '"'I  was 
ready." 

Her  hand  extended  itself  to  a  loaded  re- 
volver that  lay  upon  the  cover.  It  was  doubt- 
ful if  she  could  have  lifted  it  or  pulled  the 
trigger,  but  it  was  mute  evidence  of  the  spirit 
that  was  within  her. 

"And  have  you  seen  the  baby?"  she  asked 
as  the  doctor  started  to  leave. 

" We've  heard  her  cry,"  answered  Ormond, 
smiling  cheerfully,  "and  I'm  happy  to  say  it's 
as  healthy  a  cry  as  I  ever  listened  to.  After 
I  see  to  the  men,  poor  fellows,  I  will  come 
back  to  you." 

"Doctor,  my  husband!" 

1  '  Doing  well  and  awaiting  you  at  the  post, ' ' 
was  the  comforting  reply. 

"How  is  she!"  asked  Calmore  as  the  doctor 
rejoined  them. 

"I  haven't  made  any  investigation.  She 
looks  like  a  terribly  ill  woman.  I  have  no 
doubt  Bridget  McNeil  did  the  best  she  knew 
how  for  her  and  the  men." 

Nineteen  of  them  were  dead,  either  killed 
outright  or  had  succumbed  to  wounds.  The 
survivors  were  Sergeant  McNeil,  Corporal 


160       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

Schmidt,  Marnette,  Teamster  Bagley,  and 
three  troopers,  all  of  whom  were  wounded, 
more  or  less  badly  though  not  mortally.  The 
Indians  had  managed  to  take  away  the  bodies 
of  most  of  their  slain,  except  those  on  the 
shelf  and  those  who  had  been  shot  by  the  re- 
lief expedition  that  morning.  But  there  was 
no  doubt  that  they  had  lost  heavily.  Perhaps 
their  casualties  in  the  three  days  of  fighting 
may  have  amounted  to  one  hundred,  and  there 
were  at  least  threescore  of  dead  ponies  lying 
in  the  meadow. 

Neither  McNeil  nor  Marnette  could  walk  or 
ride  horses.  Schmidt,  the  teamster  Bagley, 
and  the  three  privates  could  manage  on  a 
pinch.  Molly's  wound  was  merely  a  scratch, 
and  nobody  on  earth  could  have  been  prouder 
of  it  than  she.  When  Captain  Calmore  patted 
her  on  the  head  after  learning  how  she  had 
saved  them  at  the  barricade,  and  how  she  had 
taken  her  place  with  the  rest  with  her  rifle  on 
that  last  terrible  day,  she  was  the  happiest 
girl  in  Wyoming. 

Having  done  all  that  could  be  done  for  the 
wounded  men  and  Molly,  Dr.  Ormond  was  at 
last  able  to  devote  his  attention  to  Marion 


THE  BABY  AND  HER  FATHER   161 

Compton,  who  sadly  needed  his  care.  The 
best  treatment  she  received,  however,  was  the 
news  that  her  husband  was  alive  and  safe  at 
the  post,  and  that  there  had  been  a  marked  im- 
provement in  his  condition  and  that  he  was 
consumed  with  anxiety  about  her.  The  sur- 
geon finally  left  her  in  very  much  better  shape 
than  he  had  believed  possible. 

"Now  what  is  to  be  done,  doctor  and  gentle- 
men? "  asked  Calmore  of  the  young  officers 
of  his  command,  having  assembled  them  for 
counsel  in  the  meadows. 

"It's  ghastly/'  said  Ormond  decisively,  "to 
think  of  moving  Mrs.  Compton  and  the 
wounded  over  this  horrible  trail,  and  through 
the  foothills,  and  then  across  that  rough 
prairie,  but  we've  got  to  get  them  to  the 
hospital  quick. " 

The  Indian  fire  had  destroyed  some  of  the 
running  gears  of  the  wagons,  but  enough  re- 
mained to  complete  at  least  three  of  them. 
The  beds  that  had  suffered  the  least  were 
chosen  and  the  more  valuable  contents  were 
repacked  in  them.  The  ambulance,  of  course, 
was  among  these  and  every  preparation  was 
made  for  the  comfortable  carriage  of  Mrs. 


162       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

Compton  and  two  entirely  incapacitated  sol- 
diers. 

Calmore,  in  view  of  their  hard  day  and  night 
march  and  their  exhausting  battle,  gave  the 
whole  command  a  rest,  deciding  not  to  under- 
take the  march  back  until  the  next  morning. 
The  tired  troopers  slept  under  the  protection 
of  strong  guards,  and  no  attempt  was  made 
by  the  Indians  to  molest  them.  They  had 
had  enough  evidently.  Indeed,  cautious  scout- 
ing the  next  morning  disclosed  the  fact  that 
the  whole  band  had  gone  up  the  canyon  and 
about  their  own  business.  They  had  received 
severe  punishment  in  any  case,  and  even  if 
Calmore  had  been  able  to  follow  them  his  or- 
ders absolutely  prevented. 

The  next  morning  they  buried  the  dead  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliff,  in  front  of  the  shelf  they 
had  so  gallantly  defended,  with  their  faces 
looking  across  the  meadow,  which  they  had 
swept  with  bullets  with  such  deadly  effect. 
Covering  them  with  the  biggest  stones  they 
could  move,  prayers  were  recited  by  the  cap- 
tain, and  over  them  three  volleys  that  echoed 
and  re-echoed  over  the  meadow  and  through 
the  great  canyon  were  fired.  Then  followed 


THE  BABY  AND  HER  FATHER   163 

the  music  of  taps,  the  soldier's  "lights  out 
and  farewell,"  after  which  they  took  up  the 
march. 

They  had  got  together  scratch  teams  from 
the  captured  horses  to  draw  the  wagons  and 
the  ambulance.  They  went  .slowly,  at  a  snail's 
pace,  of  course,  and  the  eager  troopers  worked 
like  laborers  clearing  the  trail  in  order  that 
the  wagons  carrying  the  wounded  and  the 
women  might  proceed  «is  easily  and  as 
smoothly  as  possible.  But  it  was  a  fearful 
journey  in  spite  of  all  they  could  do.  Indeed, 
sometimes  they  unhitched  the  horses  and 
fairly  carried  the  ambulance  over  some  of  the 
rough  places.  It  had  taken  the  soldiers  from 
noon  till  dawn  to  reach  the  meadows.  Two 
noons  and  two  dawns  passed  before  they 
reached  the  welcoming  gates  in  the  wooden 
walls  of  Fort  Sullivan. 

The  whole  command  was  out  to  receive 
them,  from  the  general  down  to  the  non-coms.' 
wives  from  "Suds  Bow."  A  frantic  burst  of 
cheering  arose  as  the  wagons  drew  near.  But 
as  they  saw  the  grave  face  of  Calmore  gallop- 
ing ahead  of  the  rest,  who  came  on  more 
slowly,  strained  silence  succeeded.  Calmore 


164       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

swung  himself  from  his  horse  and  saluted  the 
general. 

"Well,  Calmore,  well?"  said  the  old  man. 

"  The  women  and  children  are  safe,  sir. 
Molly  McNeil  slightly  wounded.  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton  as  well  as  could  be  expected.  The 
baby " 

"Ah!" 

"It  was  born  the  night  Meagher  left  the 
camp. ' ' 

"Girl  or  a  boy?" 

"Girl,  sir;  doing  well." 

"And  the  men?" 

"I  brought  back  McNeil,  Schmidt,  Mar- 
nette,  Bagley,  and  three  troopers." 

"And  the  rest?" 

"We  buried  them  on  the  field,  sir." 

"Good  heavens!    And  the  survivors?" 

"Every  one  of  them  wounded.  The  doctor 
thinks  they  will  all  recover." 

"Get  away  from  the  gate!"  cried  the  gen- 
eral sharply. 

There  was  no  cheering  now.  Calmore  had 
spoken  clearly  and  his  voice  carried.  The  am- 
bulance drew  abreast  the  little  group  of  offi- 
cers. The  general  took  off  his  cap  and  stood 


THE  BABY  AND  HER  FATHER   165 

at  attention.  McNeil  and  Marnette  managed 
to  sit  up  in  the  second  wagon.  They  got  a 
salute  from  the  old  man,  who  had  been  a 
major-general  in  the  Civil  War,  and  it  was 
the  proudest  moment  in  McNeil's  life  when 
by  great  effort  he  managed  to  return  it. 
Molly  was  on  horseback.  The  soldiers  grinned 
at  her.  They  would  not  cheer,  but  their  ap- 
preciation was  evident.  Bridget  McNeil  sat 
in  the  front  seat  of  the  ambulance.  The  men 
knew  that  Mrs.  Compton  was  there.  And  so 
between  bared  heads  and  uplifted  hearts  the 
little  band,  followed  by  the  troopers  of  Cal- 
more,  filed  through  the  gates. 

"You  will  let  me  see  my  husband  right 
away!"  Mrs.  Compton  had  made  the  doctor 
promise. 

" Instantly,  my  dear  lady,"  said  the  sur- 
geon. "It  will  be  the  best  medicine  for  both 
of  you." 

"And,  Bridget,  you  will  bring  the  baby!" 

"Thrust  me  for  that,  ma'am,"  said  Brid- 
get, proud  of  the  confidence  reposed  in  her 
and  the  hearty  approval  of  the  surgeon  and 
the  rest  for  the  way  she  had  discharged  her 
duties  and  faced  her  responsibilities. 


166      A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

The  eager,  young  lieutenants  manned  the 
stretcher  on  which  Marion  Compton  was  to 
be  put.  The  whole  regiment  was  clamorous 
to  carry  her,  but  Calmore  and  his  own  officers 
of  Compton 's  own  squadron  claimed  the 
privilege.  Very  tenderly  they  got  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton on  the  stretcher,  the  whole  regiment  look- 
ing sympathetically  on,  they  drew  her  out  of 
the  ambulance  and  carried  her  into  the  hos- 
pital. The  general  had  already  sent  word  to 
Major  Compton  that  his  wife  was  safe  and 
was  coming.  They  brought  her  in  carefully 
and  laid  her  gently  on  a  narrow  bed  placed 
close  by  her  husband 's  in  the  private  room  he 
occupied. 

The  hands  of  husband  and  wife  met,  and 
all  the  power  of  great  passion  and  absorbing 
devotion  could  only  express  itself  in  feeble 
pressure. 

"Jack,"  said  the  woman,  "thank  God  I  am 
here!" 

"Indeed,"  said  Compton,  "if  it  had  not 
been  for  Him  I  am  sure  neither  of  us  would 
be  here." 

"I'm  thinkin',  sor,"  said  Bridget,  entering 
the  room  at  the  same  time,  "that  here's  an- 


THE  BABY  AND  HER  FATHER   167 

other  one  that  you'd  ought  to  be  thankful  to 
God  for." 

"And  to  you,  Bridget,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Compton,  as  the  faithful  Irishwoman  uncov- 
ered her  bundle  and  laid  the  little  baby  on 
Marion  Compton 's  arm,  where  her  husband 
could  look  at  her  by  turning  his  head. 

And  that  is  the  way  the  baby  came. 


BOOK  TWO 
HOW  THEY  NEARLY  LOST  HER 


XII 

IN  WHICH  THE  BABY  GETS 
"ESCRUGED" 

JUST  five  years  had  elapsed  since  the  day 
Lieutenant-Colonel  John  H.  Compton, 
United  States  Army,  then  only  a  major, 
had  been  brought  desperately  wounded  to  this 
very  post,  of  which  the  mutations  of  the  serv- 
ice had  now  placed  him  in  command.  It  was 
therefore  just  five  years  since  his  brave,  young 
wife,  Marion,  had  joined  the  half-dead  soldier 
in  the  hospital,  while  Bridget  McNeil  had  in- 
troduced him  for  the  first  time  to  his  daughter, 
born  two  days  before  on  the  trail  amid  inci- 
dents as  terrible  and  heart-rending  as  they 
were  exciting. 

The  baby,  who  had  been  christened  Marion, 
after  her  mother,  had  just  successfully  nego- 
tiated her  escape  from  the  dining-room  of  her 
father's  quarters  at  Fort  Sullivan.  The 
colonel  had  been  exceedingly  distrait  and  pre- 
occupied during  the  meal.  The  old  Civil  War 

171 


172       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

general,  who  had  held  the  command  when 
Marion  was  born,  had  died,  and  the  new 
colonel  of  the  regiment  was  on  detached  serv- 
ice; the  active  command,  therefore,  of  that 
splendid  body  of  hard  fighters  and  gallant 
horsemen,  the  Fourteenth  Begular  Cavalry, 
had  devolved  upon  the  youngest  officer  of  his 
rank  in  the  service ;  and  with  the  command  of 
the  regiment  came  the  command  of  the  post. 

Fort  Sullivan  was  not  much  of  a  post.  It 
was  one  of  those  many  temporary  little  fron- 
tier forts  with  which  the  Western  country 
was  dotted.  Originally  it  was  designed  for  a 
garrison  of  three  or  four  companies  of  in- 
fantry or  a  troop  or  two  of  cavalry,  seeking  to 
overawe  and  control  vast  expanses  of  terri- 
tory, filled  with  roaming  bands  of  savage  In- 
dians, not  yet  broken  to  the  law  and  totally 
unable  to  realize  the  power  of  the  United 
States  from  the  petty  manifestation  of  it  they 
were  accustomed  to  meet. 

Fort  Sullivan  was  situated  among  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Big  Horn  Mountains.  The  enor- 
mous mass  of  snow-capped  Cloud  Peak  was 
easily  visible  from  the  parade.  The  fort  it- 
self was  nothing  more  than  a  rambling  stock- 


BABY  GETS  "  ESCRUGED  "  173 

ade,  in  which  were  contained  the  officers '  quar- 
ters, storehouses,  and  barracks  for  the  men, 
and  a  watch  tower.  Adjoining  the  stockade 
was  a  less  defensible  enclosure,  the  corral, 
containing  the  cavalry  stables  and  the  yards 
for  mules,  wagons,  and  the  other  miscellan- 
eous livestock  and  impedimenta  of  an  army 
post. 

The  stockade  was  impregnable  against  any- 
thing but  artillery;  soldiers  with  fieldpieces 
could  have  knocked  it  to  pieces  in  an  hour,  but 
against  the  Indians  it  would  serve.  Outside 
the  post,  extending  for  miles  toward  the  moun- 
tain range,  lay  a  broad  expanse  of  rolling 
prairie.  Near  the  post  there  was  a  grassy 
meadow,  which  was  used  as  a  cavalry  drill 
ground,  and  whose  proximity  to  the  knoll,  on 
which  the  stockade  rose,  together  with  the 
mountain  brook  to  the  left,  had  determined  the 
location  of  the  fort.  To  the  northward  be- 
yond this  open  space  the  land,  which  ran  to 
the  foothills,  began  to  be  heavily  wooded  on 
the  slopes  of  the  approaches  of  the  great 
range. 

All  through  that  long  summer  the  county 
had  been  in  a  state  of  feverish  unrest.  The 


174       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

Sioux  and  Cheyennes,  temporarily  quieted  for 
a  few  years,  had  grown  menacingly  bold  and 
reckless;  they  had  gone  on  the  warpath  early 
in  the  spring,  and  were  still  out.  The  whole 
frontier  was  ablaze,  settlers  had  been  massa- 
cred, and  where  they  had  wives  or  daughters 
these  had  been  made  the  victims  of  atrocities 
too  frightful  to  dwell  upon. 

Every  available  soldier  in  the  Northwest 
had  been  hurried  into  the  field,  except  Comp- 
ton  and  four  troops  at  Fort  Sullivan.  They 
had  been  retained  where  they  were  as  a  sort 
of  reserve  to  afford  a  rallying  point  in  case 
of  disaster.  The  four  troops  also  had  to 
guard  an  immense  section  of  the  country.  The 
main  trails  to  the  front  passed  by  the  stock- 
ade ;  there  had  been  many  small  brushes  with 
the  Indians  while  these  cavalrymen  were  es- 
corting wagon  trains  to  the  next  post  across 
the  range.  The  work  was  important — indeed, 
vitally  necessary — but  both  the  colonel  and 
his  men  pined  for  a  chance  to  take  the  field. 
There  was  no  help  for  it,  however,  orders  were 
orders  and  they  had  to  remain  at  the  post  do- 
ing this  escort  duty,  which  was  exciting  enough 
and  dangerous,  too,  heaven  only  knows. 


BABY  GETS  "  ESCRUGED  "  175 

Colonel  Compton  had  enjoyed  his  full  share 
of  field  work  in  years  gone  by,  anyway,  and 
perhaps  the  authorities  thought  he  ought  to 
be  well  satisfied  with  his  present  duty. 

Marion  Compton,  while  she  sympathized 
outwardly  with  her  husband's  disappointment 
at  his  comparative  inaction,  rejoiced  in  her 
heart  that  he  was  spared  the  dangers  of  the 
field.  She  was  very  contented  that  summer 
save  for  the  constant  apprehension  that  some 
other  detachment  would  be  ordered  to  gar- 
rison Fort  Sullivan  and  the  fresh  men  of  the 
first  squadron  of  the  Fourteenth  Cavalry 
would  have  to  take  the  field.  That  was  cer- 
tain to  come  about  sooner  or  later  she  and 
everybody  else  knew,  meanwhile  she  would 
enjoy  the  day. 

She  was  not  the  only  woman  at  the  post. 
Two  or  three  of  the  officers  were  married,  and 
there  were  twice  as  many  children  there,  so 
little  Miss  Marion  Compton  did  not  lack  youth- 
ful companionship.  Then,  too,  there  were  a 
number  of  married  non-commissioned  officers 
stationed  at  the  post.  There  were  also  a  num- 
ber of  maids,  mostly  pretty,  young  Irish  or 
German  girls,  who  found  life  at  such  a  post, 


176       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

surrounded  as  they  were  by  two  hundred  or 
more  gallant,  dashing,  young  cavalrymen, 
rather  delightful. 

The  colonel's  wife's  maid  was  a  jewel.  Molly 
McNeil  had  developed  into  as  pretty  a  girl 
as  the  proverbial  Irish  colleen  of  the  story- 
book. Her  hair  was  black,  her  eyes  were  blue, 
her  skin  was  fair.  As  a  maid  she  was  a 
veritable  treasure ;  but  had  she  been  as  incom- 
petent as  she  was  able,  Mrs.  Compton  would 
have  kept  her,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
she  was  devoted  heart  and  soul  to  little 
Marion,  who  reciprocated  the  passion  she  in- 
spired so  completely  that  the  young  mother 
sometimes  had  to  fight  down  a  more  than 
passing  pang  of  jealousy. 

Sergeant  McNeil  had  never  so  far  recov- 
ered from  his  wounds  as  to  be  again  fit  for 
active  service.  With  a  medal  of  honor  and  a 
pension,  he  had  been  given  a  well-earned  re- 
tirement. The  happiest  hour  of  the  old  ser- 
geant's active  and  adventurous  life  had  been 
that  on  which  he  actually  enjoyed  the  distin- 
guished honor  of  reviewing  the  regiment,  old 
General  Allenby  in  personal  command  and 
giving  him  the  salute,  to  which  his  long  serv- 


BABY  GETS  "  ESCRUGED  "  177 

ice,  Ms  merits,  and  his  gallant  conduct  en- 
titled Mm. 

Thereafter  a  place  as  watchman  in  a  CM- 
cago  bank  had  been  found  for  him,  and  he 
had  gone  East  to  accept  it,  taking  with  Mm  his 
faithful  wife,  Bridget.  Molly  had  remained 
with  the  Comptons  as  little  Marion's  nurse, 
and  although  often  urged  to  give  up  work 
and  come  East  and  live  with  her  father,  now 
abundantly  able  to  support  her,  she  had  al- 
ways refused.  She  loved  her  charge  whose 
whole  life  had  been  spent  with  her  too  much 
ever  to  leave  her,  she  declared. 

One  could  hardly  describe  Molly  McNeil's 
devotion  to  Marion  junior  as  whole-hearted, 
however,  for  the  bright,  young  Irish  girl,  now 
just  turned  nineteen,  also  cherished  a  long- 
existent  and  growing  admiration  for  Trooper 
Danny  Meagher,  one  of  the  likeliest  young 
men  in  B  troop.  Yet  she  would  rather  have 
died  than  allowed  her  preference  to  have  be- 
come known  to  anybody,  much  less  to  the  ob- 
ject of  her  affections. 

In  the  first  place,  Molly  was  liked  by  all 
and  loved  by  many,  and  she  took  an  exquisite 
pleasure  in  being  catholic  in  the  distribution 


178       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

of  her  favors.  In  the  second  place,  she  was 
having  too  good  a  time  to  resign,  as  yet, 
everything  in  favor  of  one  man. 

Danny  Meagher  himself,  who  was  hopelessly 
in  love  with  her,  had  no  idea  that  he  would 
eventually  carry  off  the  prize.  He  had  kissed 
her  without  hesitation  five  years  ago  in  the 
canyon,  but  now  he  could  scarcely  find  cour- 
age enough  to  squeeze  her  hand  on  those  rare 
occasions  when  she  permitted  him  to  hold  it. 

Meagher  also  had  a  medal  of  honor.  In- 
deed, every  survivor  of  the  defence  of  the 
train  at  Big  Meadows,  in  the  canyon,  had  been 
granted  the  same  coveted  distinction,  except, 
of  course,  Marnette,  who  was  not  in  the  serv- 
ice. Corporal  Schmidt,  that  had  been,  was 
now  first  sergeant  of  B  troop,  and  Danny 
Meagher  would  have  won  the  chevrons  of  a 
sergeant  also  had  he  not  been  so  incurably 
light-hearted,  mischievous,  and  fond  of  fun. 
Colonel  Compton  had  his  eye  on  him,  how- 
ever, and  when  he  steadied  down  his  promo- 
tion was  certain.  Meagher  was  only  twenty- 
four  and  apparently  as  much  of  a  boy  as 
when  he  made  that  mad  dash  through  the 
night  to  bring  rescue  to  Sergeant  McNeil. 


BABY  GETS  "  ESCRUGED  "  179 

It  so  happened  that  B  troop  had  been  sta- 
tioned elsewhere  for  the  preceding  three  years. 
It  had  only  rejoined  the  squadron  at  Fort 
Sullivan  a  few  months  before,  so  Danny,  who 
had  heretofore  regarded  Molly  McNeil  as  a 
little  girl,  was  greatly  astonished  at  her  de- 
velopment. He  had  immediately  sought  to 
establish  himself  once  more  on  the  old  foot- 
ing, but  the  young  woman  was  not  so  minded. 
Or,  if  she  was,  she  cleverly  concealed  her 
wishes  and  led  Meagher  a  merry  chase  along 
with  the  rest. 

Molly  was  as  flirtatious  as  she  was  pretty, 
and  the  other  young  women  of  that  jolly  but 
humble  social  circle,  of  which  she  was  the 
leader,  followed  her  example.  Colonel  Comp- 
ton  used  to  declare  whimsically  that  he  had 
more  trouble  between  the  men  and  the  women 
together  than  he  would  have  had  of  an  army 
of  either  separately. 

Molly's  heart  was  a  big  one,  however;  in- 
deed, it  seemed  sometimes  to  the  keenly  ob- 
servant and  not  a  little  amused  officers  that 
it  was  large  enough  to  take  in  the  whole  regi- 
ment, and  baby  Marion  enjoyed  a  share  en- 
tirely disproportionate  to  her  own  small  per- 


180       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

son.  All  the  men  adored  the  baby,  though 
they  were  madly  jealous,  especially  Meagher, 
of  every  caress  Molly  lavished  upon  her. 

Colonel  Compton  had  been  distrait  and  ir- 
responsive to  his  little  daughter's  advances  at 
dinner  that  late  autumn  day  because  he  had 
received  tidings  of  the  burning  of  a  settlement 
a  few  miles  from  the  post  by  a  larger  and  more 
formidable  war  party  of  Indians  than  had 
hitherto  ventured  near  the  fort.  He  had 
promptly  dispatched  Calmore,  one  of  his  best 
captains,  with  his  troop  to  the  destroyed  set- 
tlement, praying  that  some  of  the  settlers 
might  have  escaped  and  the  succor  might  be 
valuable,  and  hoping  also  that  the  arrival  of 
the  cavalry  might  possibly  save  other  outlying 
settlements,  or,  at  least,  give  the  ranchers  and 
their  families  opportunity  to  get  to  the  post 
under  a  safe  escort. 

This  troop  had  been  gone  a  day  and  a  half, 
and  nothing  had  been  heard  from  it,  which 
was  very  disquieting.  Whether  to  wait  any 
longer  or  to  order  out  another  troop  to  seek 
for  it  or  to  go  with  heavier  force  were  prob- 
lems which  weighed  upon  him  deeply.  Con- 
tary  to  his  usual  habit,  he  had  paid  no  atten- 


BABY  GETS  "  ESCRUGED  "  181 

tion  to  Miss  Marion's  lively  prattle.  He 
answered  her  monosyllabically  and  at  ran- 
dom. The  young  lady  was  not  used  to  being 
so  disdainfully  treated  and  she  resented  it  in 
her  own  fashion  by  bursting  into  a  sudden 
roar  of  weeping. 

"What  the—  -"  exclaimed  the  colonel, 
catching  himself  just  in  time  as  his  wife  in- 
terrupted with  uplifted  hands. 

"My  dear!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  baby?"  he 
asked. 

There  was  no  answer.  When  she  got  started 
Marion  could  outmatch  the  capacity  of  Bot- 
tom the  Weaver,  who  boasted  his  qualifica- 
tions for  playing  the  lion's  part.  Like  the 
immortal  Athenian,  she  demonstrated  that 
she  could  do  it  extempore,  too,  since  it  was 
nothing  but  roaring. 

"Marion,  what  do  you  want?"  at  last  in- 
sisted Colonel  Compton  firmly. 

"I  dess  want  to  be  escruged,"  Miss  Marion 
at  last  managed  to  choke  out  between  her 
vociferous  sobs. 

' '  Well,  in  heaven 's  name, i  escruge '  her,  Mar- 
ion," said  Compton  to  his  wife.  "I've  got 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

troubles  enough  without  having  this  child  on 
my  nerves  in  this  way." 

" Molly,"  said  Mrs.  Compton  with  dignity, 
"take  Miss  Marion  out." 

"I  don't  want  to  do  in  de  kitchen  wiv 
Molly,"  roared  the  little  lady. 

"Well,  take  her  anywhere — out  on  the  pa- 
rade ground  or  any  old  place,"  said  the  dis- 
tracted officer. 

Molly,  shooting  a  rather  indignant  glance  at 
him — for  had  he  not  been  harsh  to  her  dar- 
ling?— looked  to  Mrs.  Compton  for  confirma- 
tion. She  took  her  orders  from  the  mistress, 
not  the  master. 

"Yes,  take  her  out  on  the  parade,  the 
colonel  is  very  much  troubled  to-day,"  she 
said. 

Molly  nodded.  She  hadn't  lived  at  the  post 
a  year  without  comprehending  some  of  the 
troubles  of  the  commanding  officer,  and  eke 
the  commanding  officer's  wife.  So  she  gently 
bundled  the  small  miss  in  her  arms,  and  the 
two  made  their  escape. 

"What  is  it  that  troubles  you,  John?"  asked 
his  wife,  coming  around  the  table  and  sitting 
down  by  his  side. 


BABY  GETS  "  ESCRUGED  "  183 

"The  old  situation,  my  dear,"  lie  replied. 
"Not  hearing  from  Calmore,  coupled  with 
the  fact  that  the  Indians  had  the  audacity  to 
raid  that  settlement  so  near  us.  Their  num- 
bers, too,  according  to  the  report  of  old  Mar- 
nette,  who  brought  the  news  of  the  attack,  are 
considerable.  We  had  no  reason  to  expect 
anything  of  this  kind,  and  it  looks  as  though 
the  troops  to  the  westward  had  been  defeated 
or  outgeneraled,  else  the  Sioux  couldn't  be 
in  such  strong  force  hereabouts. ' ' 

"Are  there  many  of  them?" 

"There  must  have  been  three  hundred  in 
that  war  party.  You  know  Marnette  is  a  most 
reliable  man— 

' '  He  went  back  with  Captain  Calmore,  didn  't 
he?" 

"Yes,  and  his  presence  with  that  force 
makes  me  a  little  less  anxious.  Calmore  is  a 
splendid  officer,  but  Marnette  knows  more 
about  Indians  and  Indian  fighting  than  any 
man  on  the  frontier,  and  he  loves  it,  too." 

"I  wonder  why  he  didn't  go  to  the  front 
with  General  Crook  or— 

"Well,  Marnette  is  getting  old,  and  he's 
mighty  fond  of  a  young  woman  not  far  from 


184       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

here  with  whom  I,  too,  am  mightily  smitten, " 
was  the  fond  reply. 

"Nonsense,  John,"  said  Marion  Compton, 
looking  greatly  pleased,  nevertheless. 

"And  Marnette  has  told  me  that  he  rather 
expected  that  all  we'd  have  to  do  to  get  in  the 
fighting  is  to  sit  tight  and  wait  until  it  came  to 
us.  I  laughed  at  the  idea  at  first,  but  I  begin 
to  believe  he  is  right  now.  Well,  I  must  go 
into  the  office  and— 

' l  Don 't  go  right  away,  John, ' '  said  his  wife. 
"Stay  with  me  a  little  while.  I'll  let  the  table 
wait  for  Molly.  Come,  we'll  go  into  the  parlor 
and  I'll  play  for  you.  You  look  so  tired  and 
worried.  I  can't  bear  to  see  that  expression 
on  your  face." 

"And  what  would  my  command  say  if  they 
knew  that  when  I  ought  to  be  about  my  busi- 
ness, I  was  listening  to  you  at  the  piano!" 

"Well,  they  would  probably  say  they  wished 
they  were  where  you  were  if  they  got  a 
chance,"  answered  his  beautiful  young  wife 
brightly. 

"And  well  they  might,"  returned  Colonel 
Compton.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "I  can 
spare  you  a  half  hour." 


BABY  GETS  "  ESCRUGED  "  185 

" Spare  me!"  smiled  the  girl  brightly.  She 
was  still  not  much  more  than  a  girl,  although 
many  years  a  wife  and  five  years  a  mother. 

"Spare  myself,  then,  you  little  witch." 

And  although  she  was  rather  a  substantial 
"little  witch,"  he  picked  her  up  lightly  in  his 
big,  strong  arms  and  carried  her  into  the  room 
adjoining  the  dining-room.  Like  every  other 
frontier  room,  it  was  bare  and  sparsely  fur- 
nished; the  only  piano  in  the  territory,  it  was 
believed,  had  lodgment  there,  and  the  whole 
garrison  rejoiced  thereat. 

Presently  the  music  of  Marion  Compton 's 
clear,  sweet  soprano  floated  out  into  the  room, 
and  a  little  later  Compton  himself  joined  in 
some  old  song  in  a  creditable  tenor  voice.  The 
half  hour  was  soon  gone,  and  something  more 
besides.  For  a  little  time  Compton  had  for- 
gotten his  responsibilities  and  cares.  The  or- 
derly, who  opened  the  door,  having  knocked 
once  or  twice  without  arousing  attention, 
thought  they  made  a  very  pretty  picture :  the 
woman  at  the  piano,  the  colonel  standing  back 
of  her,  his  arm  resting  lightly  and  tenderly  on 
her  shoulder.  It  was  a  pity  to  disturb  them, 
but  he  had  news  that  could  not  wait. 


186       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  said  sharply. 

Compton  wheeled  on  his  heel  on  the  instant 
and  looked  at  him,  frowning. 

"I  knocked  several  times,  sir,  but  could  not 
make  you  hear,"  exclaimed  the  orderly 
quickly. 

"Oh,"  returned  Compton,  " I  understand. " 

' '  The  officer  of  the  guard  reports  that  there 
are  Indians  on  the  hills  to  the  westward." 

i '  John ! ' '  cried  Mrs.  Compton,  as  he  turned, 
snatched  a  hasty  kiss,  grabbed  his  cap,  and 
followed  by  the  orderly,  fairly  ran  from  the 
room. 

In  one  corner  of  the  post  a  tall  watch  tower 
of  logs  had  been  built.  Compton  broke  into  a 
run  as  he  stepped  off  the  low  porch  in  front  of 
his  quarters.  He  crossed  the  parade  on  the 
double-quick,  and  sprang  up  the  rude  stairs  of 
the  watch  tower  with  the  agility  of  a  light- 
footed  boy. 

Hadden,  now  one  of  the  younger  first  lieu- 
tenants, who  was  the  officer  of  the  guard,  was 
already  there  with  the  sergeant  of  the  guard, 
Schmidt,  the  survivor  of  the  defence  of  the 
train,  and  a  veteran  of  many  campaigns  in  the 
old  country,  whence  he  came. 


BABY  GETS  «  ESCRUGED  "          187 

" Where  are  they?"  asked  the  colonel 
quickly. 

The  officer  lowered  his  field  glasses  and 
pointed  across  the  meadow  to  the  hill. 

1  i There,  sir,"  he  cried,  proffering  the 
binoculars  to  the  colonel. 

"Sioux  und  Cheyennes,"  growled  old 
Schmidt. 

He  had  seen  them  often  in  the  field  and 
recognized  them,  even  with  his  naked  eye. 

"By  George !"  exclaimed  Compton,  after  a 
quick  stare  through  Hadden 's  field  glasses, 
"you  are  right.  Where  can  Calmore  be!" 

"He  should  have  been  back  long  ago,  sir," 
ventured  Hadden. 

"Yes.    Sergeant  of  the  guard!" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Schmidt,  saluting. 

"Have  the  trumpeter  sound  'boots  and  sad- 
dles. '  Let  the  men  get  their  horses  in  a  hurry. 
Mr.  Hadden,  tell  the  adjutant  to  see  that  every 
man  has  all  the  ammunition  he  can  carry." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  cried  old  Schmidt,  turn- 
ing and  plodding  down  the  stairs. 

The  next  moment  the  blare  of  a  bugle  was 
heard  throughout  the  enclosure.  Hadden  had 
turned  to  follow  the  sergeant  to  carry  out  the 


188       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

orders  he  had  received  with  reference  to  the 
adjutant,  but  ere  he  could  leave  Compton 
caught  him  by  the  shoulder;  he  dropped  the 
field  glasses  to  the  floor  with  a  crash  as  he  did 
so. 

"My    God,    Hadden!"    he    cried.      "Look 
there !" 


XIII 

WHEEEIN  LITTLE  MISS  MARION  IS 
TAKEN  BY  THE  ENEMY. 

THE  colonel's  face  was  as  white  as  a 
sheet.  Hadden  stared  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment, not  comprehending. 

'  '  There,  there, ' '  cried  Compton,  fairly  shak- 
ing with  emotion. 

Away  off  near  the  farther  end,  evidently 
just  having  come  out  from  the  trees  to  the 
northward,  Hadden  made  out  a  tiny  little  fig- 
ure toiling  through  the  tall  grass.  He  recog- 
nized it  at  once. 

"The  baby!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  is  she 
doing  there?" 

"I  don't  know.    Look  yonder." 

The  Indians,  too,  had  caught  sight  of  the 
little  figure.  A  number  of  them  detached 
themselves  from  the  mass  on  the  hills  and 
galloped  down  the  slope  to  the  eastward  that 
led  toward  the  meadow  and  the  post.  Comp- 
ton was  paralyzed  with  horror. 

189 


190       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

< < I'll  get  her,"  cried  Hadden. 

He  threw  himself  down  the  stairs.  Some 
of  the  more  alert  of  the  men  were  already  as- 
sembling on  the  parade,  when  Hadden  burst 
into  the  midst  of  them. 

"A  horse — a  horse !"  he  cried. 

He  seized  the  bridle  of  the  nearest  one. 

"Everybody  that  is  armed  and  mounted  fol- 
low me,"  roared  the  officer.  "Open  the  main 
gate." 

The  troopers  of  the  guard,  being  dismounted, 
had  not  realized  what  had  happened,  for  no 
one  could  see  over  the  stockade.  They  knew 
that  something  serious  was  up,  and  lost  no 
time  in  mounting  and  obeying  the  lieutenant's 
orders.  Throwing  open  the  main  gate  the 
lieutenant,  followed  by  a  score  of  soldiers, 
dashed  through  it. 

Hadden  was  a  superb  horseman,  and  he  hap- 
pened to  have  got  a  good  horse.  He  had  the 
lead,  too.  He  knew  just  what  he  wanted,  the 
others  had  to  find  that  out.  They  had  fol- 
lowed blindly  with  the  courage  that  the  Amer- 
ican soldier  always  manifests  when  his  officer 
leads  him,  and  it  was  not  until  they  opened 
out  on  the  meadow  that  they  saw  what  they 


LITTLE  MARION  CAPTURED         191 

were  after.  The  colonel's  daughter  was  the 
pet  and  the  pride  of  the  regiment.  Every  man 
in  it  loved  her  and  she  loved  them  all  in  turn. 
She  was  utterly  unconscious  of  her  peril,  but 
they  realized  it  and  rode  madly  toward  her. 

Little  Marion  raised  her  head  presently,  and 
saw  the  Indians,  who  were  much  nearer  to  her 
than  the  soldiers.  They  did  not  frighten  her, 
for  she  was  an  intrepid  child  and  had  always 
been  thrown  with  men.  Like  her  father  and 
her  mother,  she  was  absolutely  fearless,  she 
had  seen  Indians  before,  and  the  bright 
plumes  of  the  magnificent  war  bonnets  of  the 
Sioux  and  Cheyennes  interested  and  pleased 
her  greatly.  She  waved  her  hand  at  them  in 
a  childish  glee.  She  did  not  see  the  troops 
racing  furiously  on,  gritting  out  curses  and 
prayers  as  they  pushed  forward,  sparing 
neither  their  horses  nor  themselves  in  their 
endeavor. 

It  was  a  hopeless  attempt  from  the  first. 
The  Indians  had  too  great  a  start  and  there 
must  have  been  two  hundred  and  fifty  of  them 
riding  toward  the  baby.  Yet  Hadden  and  the 
twenty  heroes  raced  on.  They  were  not  the 
only  persons  in  the  drama,  for  a  trooper  on 


192       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

foot,  his  face  deathly  white,  suddenly  appeared 
back  of  the  galloping  squadron,  racing  like 
them  in  their  wake.  The  speed  with  which  he 
went  was  amazing;  but  of  course  he  could  not 
keep  up,  or  overtake  the  men  on  horses,  but 
he  made  a  gallant  run  for  the  baby.  It  was 
trooper  Danny  Meagher  of  the  guard! 

Back  in  the  fort  pandemonium  was  let  loose. 
Compton  turned  and  called  over  the  parapet 
of  the  tower. 

"For  God's  sake  make  haste  and  get  your 
companies  out,  gentlemen,  my  little  daughter 
is  there  in  the  meadow,  and— 

Never  in  the  history  of  the  regiment  were 
three  troops  of  cavalry  mounted  and  moved 
out  so  quickly.  With  frantic  haste  the  men 
saddled  their  horses  and  fell  in  line.  Dexter, 
senior  captain  present,  raised  his  sword  two 
minutes  after  Hadden  had  burst  out,  and  cried, 

"All  ready,  sir." 

"Go,"  said  Compton,  "get  the  child  if  you 
can,  but  don't  bring  on  a  general  action. 
Stand  by  for  signals  from  the  post.  Don't 
leave  the  meadow." 

He  was  a  soldier,  this  colonel;  and  he  real- 
ized that  although  his  child's  life  might  be  for- 


LITTLE  MARION  CAPTURED         193 

feit,  there  were  other  women  and  children 
there  and  gallant  men  whose  lives  could  not 
be  thrown  away.  By  this  time  two  women 
panted  up  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Oompton  and  Molly. 

1 i  John/'  cried  the  wife,  who  had  heard,  "is 
Marion  out  there  1 " 

"Yes,  God  help  us. " 

"Will  they  get  her  1" 

Colonel  Compton  took  his  wife  by  the  hand. 

"I  am  afraid  so.    Look!" 

The  woman  strained  her  eyes  out  over  the 
prairie.  By  this  time  the  Indians  were  fear- 
fully near,  yet  Hadden  and  his  men  were  going 
like  a  hurricane,  and  far  in  the  rear  panted 
that  desperate  runner.  Immediately  before 
and  below  the  gate  the  three  troops,  Dexter 
in  the  lead,  debouched  from  column  into  line 
and  joined  in  the  great  race. 

But  it  was  soon  over.  The  leading  Indian 
was  upon  the  child.  He  leaned  down  in  front 
of  his  horse,  swept  her  up  and  held  her  high 
in  the  air,  and  as  he  did  so  pealed  out  a  ter- 
rible war  cry.  The  next  instant  the  spitting 
of  rifles  crackled  over  the  plain,  the  first  shot 
coming  from  the  lone  runner.  He  stopped 
short  in  his  tracks  and  emptied  his  carbine 


194       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

into  the  Indians  who  had  circled  about  follow- 
ing their  leader,  and  were  now  galloping  back 
across  the  meadow  and  up  the  hill. 

The  range  was  short  the  target  was  large, 
and  there  were  half  a  dozen  empty  horses 
among  the  Indians,  especially  as  Hadden 's 
men  poured  in  a  close  volley  on  them.  The 
Indians  themselves  made  a  quick  return.  They 
were  going  fast  and  were  execrable  marks- 
men, however,  so  only  three  of  Hadden's  men 
were  hit.  Hadden  himself  received  a  scratch 
on  the  cheek,  one  man  was  killed,  and  another 
had  his  arm  broken  by  a  bullet. 

With  despair  in  his  heart,  the  young  lieu- 
tenant checked  his  pursuit.  He  had  made  a 
gallant  ride,  but  he  had  been  too  late.  With 
twenty  men  he  could  not  cope  with  the  two 
hundred  and  fifty  Indians  in  the  advance;  he 
might  have  attacked  them,  nevertheless,  for  he 
was  a  reckless  youngster  and  his  blood  was 
up,  but  they  would  immediately  be  supported 
by  the  other  savages  in  great  numbers  on  the 
hill.  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

By  this  time  Hadden  was  joined  by  Dexter, 
raising  the  total  force  to  two  hundred.  The 
odds  were  still  impossible. 


LITTLE  MARION  CAPTURED         195 

" Let's  ride  through  the  whole  damned 
bunch,  cap'n,"  cried  one  of  the  men,  "and 
git  back  the  babby." 

Dexter  hesitated. 

"I'd  like  nothing  better  than  to  do  it,"  he 
answered,  "but  it  would  be  a  hopeless  task,  I 
fear.  Still " 

And  at  that  instant,  faint  and  far  from  the 
tower,  came  the  bugle  blowing  the  recall.  That 
settled  it. 

Compton,  standing  there  alone  with  his  wife 
at  his  feet  in  a  dead  faint  and  Molly  bending 
over  her,  had  seen  it  all.  He  knew  that  if  he 
gave  the  signal  those  gallant  men  would  try 
to  ride  through  the  whole  Cheyenne  tribe,  but 
it  would  be  throwing  away  their  lives,  and  he 
decided  instantly  against  it. 

But  before  the  men  out  in  the  meadow  could 
obey  the  recall,  indeed  they  had  become  so 
scattered  in  their  wild  ride  that  it  took  some 
little  time  to  get  them  into  orderly  ranks 
again,  there  was  a  sudden  burst  of  rifle  firing 
far  to  the  left,  behind  an  unusually  steep  hill 
near  which  the  river  ran  and  around  which  the 
trail  entered  the  valley.  Dexter  was  a  good 


196       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

soldier  and  knew  the  situation  as  well  as 
Compton.  Everybody  knew  it,  in  fact. 

"That'll  be  Calmore  and  hard  pressed, "  he 
said  to  the  other  captains;  "we  must  relieve 
him." 

"Certainly,"  was  the  quick  answer  as  they 
noticed  the  Indians  to  the  front  galloping  to- 
ward the  pass. 

"Ill  disregard  the  recall,"  said  Dexter  in 
quick  decision. 

He  rode  out  a  little  in  advance  of  the  three 
troops,  and  lifted  his  sword  to  the  figure  he 
could  see  standing  on  the  tower. 

Compton  had  heard  the  firing,  he  had  seen 
the  smoke,  he  had  a  better  view  than  the  troop- 
ers in  the  field.  He  waved  his  hand  at  Dexter 
and  the  next  moment  ordered  a  bugle  to  be 
sounded,  which  gave  him  the  needed  permis- 
sion. 

"Forward!"  cried  the  veteran  captain  ex- 
ultantly. 

The  squadron  moved  off  at  a  gallop  up  the 
meadow  toward  the  pass  behind  the  hill.  They 
got  there  just  in  time.  Calmore  with  a  dozen 
wagons  containing  wounded  settlers  and  their 
women  and  children  was  fighting  desperately 


LITTLE  MARION  CAPTURED         197 

with  the  Sioux  and  Cheyennes  circling  around 
him,  furiously  pouring  in  a  withering  fire. 
Dexter  did  not  wait  a  second.  He  fell  like 
a  storm  on  the  flank  of  the  Indians,  fighting 
them  back;  indeed  that  was  easy,  for  they  in- 
variably gave  way  before  an  impetuous,  dash- 
ing charge.  Dexter  kept  his  men  well  in  hand 
and  it  was  not  long  before  the  way  was 
cleared.  Calmore,  who  did  not  need  any  in- 
structions, urged  his  wagons  in  Dexter 's  rear 
and  then  ordered  his  tired  men  up  on  Dexter 's 
right.  The  whole  body  fell  back  skirmishing, 
hard  pressed  by  the  Indians,  who,  although 
they  outnumbered  the  soldiers  five  to  one,  did 
not  venture  to  come  to  hand-to-hand  death 
grips  with  them. 

Dexter  handled  his  squadron  with  masterly 
skill  and  they  presently  reached  the  fort,  one 
or  two  having  been  killed  and  a  few  more 
wounded.  Compton  and  the  few  men  left  in 
the  fort  with  the  women  and  children  met 
them  at  the  gate. 

"You  didn't  bring  back  my  baby?"  cried 
the  desperate  mother,  as  the  excited  soldiers 
filed  through  and  formed  line  on  the  little 
parade. 


198       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

i 'Mrs.  Compton,"  said  Dexter,  throwing 
himself  from  his  horse,  "I  wish  I  had  been 
in  her  place,  ma'am." 

"And  you,  too,  failed,  Mr.  Hidden?" 

"Madam,"  said  the  young  lieutenant,  "I 
would  cheerfully  have  given  my  life  for  hers. 
I  rode  the  best  I  knew  how,  but  they  had  too 
great  a  start  over  us." 

"Did  they  kill  her?"  asked  Compton 
hoarsely. 

"I  don't  believe  so,"  answered  Calmore. 
"I  saw  her  alive  in  the  arms  of  a  chief  just 
before  Dexter  attacked  them." 

"Were  you  all  saved,  Calmore?" 

"Three  men  were  killed,  sir,  and  seven 
wounded,"  answered  Calmore,  "but  we 
brought  off  a  score  or  more  of  women  and 
children  besides  some  wounded  settlers. 
That's  Dull  Knife  out  there  with  all  the  Chey- 
ennes.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  our  dash  for  the 
settlement  every  woman  and  baby  we've  got 
in  the  wagon  would  have  been  gone.  The 
whole  Sioux  nation  is  out,  too.  I  am  awfully 
sorry  to  hear  about  the  baby,  Mrs.  Compton," 
continued  Calmore.  l 1 1  couldn  't  love  her  more 
if  she  was  my  own,"  he  added,  thinking  of  the 


LITTLE  MARION  CAPTURED         199 

day  lie  had  heard  that  baby's  voice  for  the 
first  time  five  years  before. 

"Now  that  you  are  all  safe,  I  want  to  know 
how  she  got  out,"  asked  Compton  sternly. 
It  was  the  first  opportunity  he  had  had  to 
investigate  the  affair.  "  Sergeant  of  the 
guard ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Schmidt. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  this?" 

Then  a  white-faced  man  of  the  fort  stepped 
from  the  ranks  of  the  guard  and  saluted. 

"  'Tis  me  own  fault,  sor." 

"Meagher!"  cried  Compton. 

"If  the  colonel  pleases,  I  was  on  guard  an' 
the  little  gate  was  opened  as  it  always  is,  an' 
my  attention  was  dishtracted  elsewhere  an' 
the  child  got  out  an'  we  didn't  know  it  until 
Leftenant  Hadden  burst  through  the  main 
gate,  sor." 

"What  distracted  you?"  thundered  Comp- 
ton. 

"  'Twas  me,  sor,"  said  Molly  McNeil, 
bravely  assuming  her  part  of  the  responsi- 
bility. "  'Twas  me  that  tempted  the  bhoy. 
Oh,  the  evil  day  that  I  was  born,  sor." 

The  colonel's  eyes  flashed,  the  color  mounted 


200       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

in  his  bronze  face,  his  lips  set.  He  was  furi- 
ously angered  and  controlled  himself  with  dif- 
ficulty. 

"  Officer  of  the  guard,  put  that  man  in  the 
guardhouse!"  he  cried.  "Desertion  of  his 
post  of  duty  in  time  of  war,  is  the  charge.  It 
is  punishable  with  death.  Mr.  Severance ! ' ' 

"Here,  sir,"  answered  the  adjutant. 

"Make  out  a  detail  for  a  court  to  convene 
in  the  morning  to  try  Trooper  Meagher  for 
deserting  his  post." 

"Oh,  for  the  love  of  hiven!"  wailed  Molly. 
"  'Tis  my  fault,  'tis  mine  entirely." 

She  threw  herself  at  the  colonel's  feet  and 
extended  her  arms. 

"Out  of  my  way,"  said  Compton,  harshly 
turning  aside. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  all  at 
my  quarters.  Come,  Marion,"  he  took  his  wife 
by  the  hand,  he  put  his  arm  around  her  before 
them  all,  and  half  led  and  half  carried  her 
across  the  parade. 

A  low  growl  like  thunder  rose  from  the  men, 
then  finally  one  of  them,  a  little  bolder  than 
the  rest,  voiced  the  demand. 

"Colonel  Compton,  give  us  leave,  sir,  we'll 


LITTLE  MARION  CAPTURED 

go  out  an'  clean  up  the  whole  Cheyenne  tribe 
to  git  back  the  girl." 

"For  de  honor  of  de  regiment,"  added  old 
Schmidt,  " Joust  give  us  a  chance." 

"Aye,"  cried  the  first  sergeant  of  A 
troop,  "give  us  a  chance  to  wipe  out  the  dis- 
grace that  has  been  brought  upon  us  all,  by 
that  coward  yonder.  It  is  a  shame  he  is  to 
the  Irish  an'  to  the  regiment  an'  to  the 
Army." 

There  was  an  instant  surge  toward  poor 
Danny,  who  stood  disarmed  and  helpless  in 
the  grasp  of  the  troopers  who  had  arrested 
him. 

"You're  right,  me  bhoys,"  he  cried.  "I 
desarve  it  all.  Kill  me,  I'll  welcome  the  bul- 
let." 

But  Calmore,  Dexter,  Hadden,  and  the  rest 
of  the  officers  threw  themselves  to  the  front. 

"Get  back  in  ranks  there,"  roared  Calmore 
furiously,  his  soldierly  instincts  outraged  by 
their'  mob-like  movements.  "What  do  you 
mean?" 

"Ask  the  colonel  to  let  us  go  out  at  'em, 
sir,"  the  old  sergeant-major  rather  demanded 
than  requested. 


202       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"You  hear,  Colonel  Compton,"  cried  Cal- 
more. 

For  a  moment  the  colonel  hesitated. 

"John,"  cried  his  wife  imploringly,  "let 
them  go,  they  may  save  her." 

"No,"  said  Compton  decisively,  "  it  is  not 
in  the  power  of  men.  There  are  too  many 
Cheyennes  out  there.  I  am  responsible  for 
these  men,  for  these  women  and  children  in 
this  post.  I  can't  throw  the  lives  of  these  men 

away  uselessly.  She's  my  daughter,  but 

Remember  there  are  other  mothers  here, 
Marion. — I  appreciate  your  spirit,  men,  I'd 
like  nothing  better  than  to  lead  you  on  such  a 
charge,  but  it  can't  be.  Captain  Calmore!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Dismiss  the  squadron,  detail  one  troop 
for  guard,  and  then  meet  me  in  my  quarters 
at  once  with  all  the  officers  who  can  be  spared ; 
we  must  determine  on  our  course  of  action." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

DISCLOSES  HOW  THE  WILY  DULL 
KNIFE  OFFERED  AN  EXCHANGE 

IN  view  of  the  overwhelming  numbers  of  the 
Indians  on  the  hills,  the  informal  council 
of  war  at  the  colonel's  quarters  de- 
cided, that  nothing  on  earth  could  be  done 
to  rescue  the  baby.  There  was  not  a  single 
officer,  or  a  trooper,  for  that  matter,  who 
would  not  gladly  have  periled  his  own  life  for 
the  child.  But  the  officers  were  placed  in  posi- 
tions of  public  trust,  the  post  was  crowded 
with  refugees,  its  maintenance  was  necessary 
for  the  safety  of  the  trail  and  the  keeping  open 
of  the  supply  route  to  the  front.  Fort  Sulli- 
van was  the  only  place  of  refuge,  and  the 
only  protection  as  well,  of  a  vast  area  of 
country. 

The  colonel  and  officers  realized  that  he 
had  no  right  to  jeopardize  these  great  issues 
for  the  life  of  one  little  baby,  however  precious 
she  might  be  to  him.  One  or  two  of  the  junior 

203 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

officers  did,  indeed,  advocate  a  bold  dash  at 
the  Indian  encampment,  but  the  votes  of  the 
older  and  more  experienced  captains  were 
unanimously  against  it.  And  by  these  votes 
they  showed  their  high  qualities,  for  Marion 
Compton,  a  piteous  picture  of  silent  appeal, 
sat  in  a  corner  of  the  room  listening  to  this 
discussion,  which  would  determine  the  fate  of 
her  daughter.  There  were  elements  of  hero- 
ism in  her  composition  as  well,  for  she  gave 
vent  to  no  outcry,  she  broke  into  no  wild  and 
passionate  entreaties.  She  sat  as  still  and  as 
rigid  as  the  mountain  range,  her  white  face 
stony  with  horror  and  grief,  her  heart  like  lead 
in  her  breast,  listening  to  the  verdict  of  these 
brave,  gallant,  heroic  men. 

When  all  had  spoken,  Compton,  with  one 
pitying  glance  at  his  wife,  confirmed  the  view 
of  the  majority. 

"Gentlemen,  you  have  decided  rightly, "  he 
said.  "To  attempt,  with  our  force,  to  ride 
through  those  Indians  would  be  madness. 
There  are  women  and  other  children  here,  God 
bless  them — our  first  duty  is  to  them.  The 
post  must  be  defended  at  all  hazards,  we  can't 
spare  a  man." 


DULL  KNIFE'S  OFFER  205 

"Let  me  go  alone,  sir,"  pleaded  Hadden. 
"I  can't  stand  it  to  see  your  wife " 

The  lieutenant  choked  up  and  could  not 
finish.  The  colonel  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  too  good  an  officer  to  be  thrown 
away,  Hadden,  and  you  don't  know  this  In- 
dian game.  If  Marnette  were  here  now — by 
the  way,  where  is  Marnette,  Captain  Cal- 
more?" 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Calmore  in  great  sur- 
prise, "didn't  he  come  in  with  us?" 

"I  didn't  see  him,"  answered  Compton. 
"Did  any  of  you  gentlemen?" 

"I  was  the  last  man  in  the  gate,"  said  Dex- 
ter. "I  saw  every  one  in  ahead  of  me,  and  I 
am  certain  that  Marnette  was  not  there." 

Calmore  struck  his  hand  on  the  table.  "I 
wouldn't  have  had  anything  happen  to  him  for 
the  world,"  he  exclaimed.  "We  had  a  run- 
ning fight  for  two  days,  and  I  don't  hesitate 
to  say  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  his  skill  and 
resourcefulness  we  should  have  been  wiped 
out." 

"How  on  earth  was  he  left  behind!  That 
old  trapper  has  served  both  me  and  mine  in 
days  gone  by,"  returned  the  colonel  feel- 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

ingly, ' i  and  I  value  and  esteem  him  more  than 
any  of  you  can.  Don't  take  any  blame  to  your- 
self, Captain  Calmore.  In  a  running  fight  like 
that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  watch 
every  man,  besides  I  have  confidence  that  if 
he  did  not  come  in  it  was  because  he  wanted 
to  stay  out.  Gentlemen,  his  absence  gives  me 
a  ray  of  hope." 

"Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Compton,  "do  you 
think " 

"I  don't  think  anything,  my  dear,  I  only 
hope,  a  little." 

"Mrs.  Compton,"  said  Captain  Dexter, 
"with  the  colonel's  permission,  you  surely 
know  how  we  feel?  There  isn't  a  one  of  us 
who  wouldn't  try  anything  to  get  the  baby 
back." 

"I  know,"  faltered  Mrs.  Compton,  "that 
you  are  as  brave  and  devoted  a  set  of  officers 
and  men  as  any  on  earth.  I  know  as  well  as 
you  that  nothing  can  be  done  for  my  baby  now. 
Her  fate  is  in  the  hands  of  God." 

"Yes,"  returned  Calmore,  a  veteran  of 
many  a  hard  campaign  and  desperate  fight, 
"I  know  these  Indians  well ;  there  is  more  than 
a  chance,  I  think,  that  they  won't  do  her  any 


DULL  KNIFE'S  OFFER  207 

harm;  being  a  baby  they  may  adopt  her  into 
their  tribe.  Of  course  if  she  were  older " 

"My  judgment  agrees  with  that  of  Captain 
Calmore,"  said  Dexter.  "I  don't  consider  the 
case  as  absolutely  desperate. " 

"I  pray  not,"  returned  the  woman.  "But 
whether  it  be  or  not,  we  can  do  nothing. ' ' 

"Certainly  nothing  now,"  said  Emmett, 
another  troop  commander,  "but  by  -  -  if 
we  can  get  the  regiment  together  we'll  ride 
through  the  whole  Cheyenne  tribe,  sword  in 
hand,  and  rescue  her  or " 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Compton,  "I  have  been 
proud  of  my  command,  never  more  proud  than 
at  this  moment  of  bereavement.  Now  we  must 
counsel  together  about  the  defence  of  the  post. 
It  may  be  that  they  won't  attack  us.  They 
have  shown  extraordinary  boldness  in  ap- 
proaching so  far  and  I  fear  it  may  have  gone 
hard  with  the  troops  at  the  front,  else  how 
could  they  be  here  in  such  force,  so  many  miles 
in  their  rear?" 

At  that  moment  the  door  opening  on  the 
porch  was  thrown  open,  an  orderly  from  the 
guard  appeared  in  the  entrance. 

"The  officer  of  the  guard  directs  me  to  re- 


208        A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

port  to  the  commanding  officer, "  he  said,  sa- 
luting, "that  a  flag  of  truce  from  the  Indians 
is  outside  in  the  meadow,  sir." 

It  was  one  of  the  conditions  of  this  savage 
warfare,  that  the  white  men  were  bound  to 
respect  the  conventions  and  habits  of  civiliza- 
tion. A  flag  of  truce  must  be  received,  al- 
though the  Indians  themselves  would  not  have 
paid  the  least  attention  to  a  similar  advance 
on  the  part  of  the  soldiers. 

"Come,  gentlemen,  all,"  said  Compton, 
rising  and  buckling  his  sword  around  him,  "we 
have  no  secrets,  and  we'll  see  what  they 
want." 

Followed  by  the  other  officers  the  colonel 
repaired  to  the  main  gate.  Old  Sergeant 
Schmidt  reported  that  three  Indians  had  rid- 
den up,  one  of  them  carrying  a  dirty  white 
rag  on  the  end  of  a  lance,  and  they  had  been 
halted  by  command  some  thirty  yards  away 
from  the  gate.  By  the  colonel's  direction  the 
wicket  by  the  side  of  the  main  gate  was  opened, 
and  Compton,  attended  by  Calmore  and  Had- 
den,  stepped  out,  the  other  officers  mounting 
to  the  tower  by  the  officer  of  the  guard.  The 
three  Indians  sat  their  horses  impassive  as 


DULL  KNIFE'S  OFFER  209 

statues,  Compton,  revolver  in  hand,  stepped 
forward  a  few  paces  and  said : 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Me  got  letter, "  said  the  leading  Indian,  a 
magnificent  specimen  of  Cheyenne  manhood 
with  a  gorgeous  war  bonnet  on  his  head. 

' l  Give  it  here, ' '  said  the  colonel. 

"You  no  fire!" 

"No." 

It  was  a  tribute  to  the  honor  of  the  white 
man  that  the  Indian  recognized  that  no  further 
assurance  was  necessary.  He  kicked  his  pony 
in  the  ribs  and  spoke  a  word,  the  animal 
slowly  trotted  over  to  the  three  dismounted 
officers.  Calmore  and  Hadden  kept  him  well 
covered  with  their  revolvers.  The  Indian  rode 
up  with  utmost  unconcern  and  halted  within 
reaching  distance  of  Compton.  He  handed 
him  a  dirty,  greasy  scrap  of  paper.  It  read 
this  way : 

"Dull  Knife  got  big  white  chief's  pappoose, 
he  give  back,  you  give  fort.  You  no  give  fort, 
he  kill  baby." 

The  writing — that  of  some  half-breed — was 
as  ignorant  as  the  paper  was  dirty,  but  the 
purport  of  the  message  was  unequivocal  and 


210       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

not  to  be  misunderstood.  The  Indians  offered 
to  exchange  the  baby  for  the  post.  The  prop- 
osition could  not  be  entertained  for  a  moment, 
of  course,  and  the  colonel  did  not  even  hesi- 
tate. 

"No,"  answered  Compton  promptly. 

"You  no  give!"  queried  the  Indian. 

Compton  shook  his  head. 

"Look,"  said  the  chief,  turning  in  his  sad- 
dle and  pointing  back  to  the  hill  on  which  the 
warriors  were  clustered.  As  he  spoke,  as  if  in 
obedience  to  the  gesture  he  made,  a  gigantic 
Indian  separated  himself  from  the  balance  and 
raced  down  the  slope;  he  stopped  just  out  of 
rifle  shot  and  held  the  baby  up  in  his  hand, 
with  the  other  he  brandished  a  knife  whose 
bright  blade  reflected  the  afternoon  sunlight. 

"I  will  not  give  up  the  fort  to  anybody," 
said  Compton  sternly,  "but  I  charge  you  to 
tell  Dull  Knife  that  if  he  hurts  one  hair  of 
that  baby's  head,  as  there  is  a  God  above  me 
I  will  make  the  Cheyenne  tribe  pay  with  a  life 
for  every  drop  of  blood  that's  shed.  And 
when  I  capture  him  I'll  hang  him  for  murder. 
He  knows  what  this  regiment  can  do.  Bid  him 
remember  Big  Meadows  five  years  ago." 


DULL  KNIFE'S  OFFER 

How  much  of  this  the  chief  understood  could 
not  be  known,  for  it  was  Calmore  who  asked: 

"Is  it  Dull  Knife's  band,  the  same  that  we 
defeated  in  the  canyon  when  Marion  was 
born?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  he  proposing  that  we  give  up  the  post 
for  the  child!" 

"Yes,"  answered  Compton. 

The  chief  grunted,  pointed  from  the  child 
to  the  stockade  as  if  for  the  illumination  of 
Calmore. 

"And  I  have  told  him  that  we  cannot  en- 
tertain the  proposition." 

"God,  but  it's  hard,"  said  Calmore  grimly. 

Hadden  could  no  longer  control  himself.  He 
stepped  closer  to  the  chief  and  shoved  his  re- 
volver at  the  man's  head. 

"You  murderous  dog,"  he  said  furiously, 
"I  don't  know  what  stops  me  from  pulling  the 
trigger." 

"Eespect  the  flag,  Mr.  Hadden,"  cried 
Compton.  "Get  back,"  he  flung  out  his  arm 
toward  the  chief, ' '  and  give  them  my  message. 
We  won't  give  up  the  fort,  and  if  you  hurt 
the  child  you'll  pay." 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"White  chief  big  fool,"  said  the  Indian, 
turning  his  back  on  the  group  and  trotting 
away  to  his  comrades. 

6 'Won't  you  let  me  plug  him,  Colonel ?" 
cried  Hadden,  nervously  fingering  his  re- 
volver. 

"It  can't  be,"  said  the  colonel.  "Come, 
gentlemen. ' ' 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  in  the  fort 
again.  A  few  words  put  the  officers  in  posses- 
sion of  the  proposition  which  the  colonel  had 
so  unhesitatingly  rejected.  Some  of  the  men 
heard  it,  too,  and  at  once  communicated  it 
to  the  others.  The  little  fort  was  a  seething 
mass  of  passion.  Dispositions  to  repel  the  ex- 
pected attack  and  to  hold  the  position  were 
quickly  made.  The  number  of  the  Indians 
seemed  to  be  increasing.  It  was  the  heaviest 
war  party  that  the  Cheyennes  had  ever  sent 
afield.  Experienced  men  estimated  that  there 
were  at  least  a  thousand  warriors  there.  They 
were  evidently  making  camp,  for  they  made 
no  move  to  attack  the  post;  on  the  contrary, 
as  night  approached,  fires  were  kindled  here 
and  there  on  the  hills  and  other  preparations 
made  for  the  passing  of  night. 


BULL  KNIFE'S  OFFER 

"vVTiether  they  would  eventually  attack  the 
post  or  not,  no  one  could  say,  but  Compton 
did  not  expect  any  trouble  during  the  night, 
although  the  guards  were  warned  not  to  relax 
their  vigilance  and  watchfulness  on  that  ac- 
count. 

After  seeing  everything  in  readiness,  the 
colonel  summoned  Calmore  and  Dexter,  the 
two  officers  upon  whom  he  placed  most  re- 
liance, to  his  quarters  once  more.  Again  it 
had  been  impossible  to  keep  secret  the  Indian 
offer  of  exchange  and  Mrs.  Compton  was 
aware  of  it.  She  would  not  have  been  a 
mother  if  her  heart  had  not  yearned  toward 
acceptance,  but,  like  her  husband,  she  knew 
that  was  impossible.  She  was  a  soldier's  wife 
and  she  schooled  herself  to  take  up  again  the 
ordinary  duties  of  life,  which,  though  they 
sometimes  are  frightfully  hard,  yet  after  all 
frequently  save  the  breaking  mind. 

Supper  was  on  the  table  when  the  colonel 
and  the  two  officers  entered  the  room,  and  Mrs. 
Compton  bade  them  partake  of  what  she  had 
provided. 

"I  have  had  to  get  it  myself,  John," 
she  apologized,  wearily  and  heart-brokenly. 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

1 1  Molly  is  in  a  state  of  absolute  and  utter  col- 
lapse, poor  girl,  not  only  over  the  baby" — she 
bit  her  lips  and  fought  down  the  choking  sen- 
sation in  her  throat — "but  because  it  was  her 
foolish  flirting  with  Meagher  that  caused  him 
to  neglect  his  duty  and  made  them  both  for- 
get the  baby,  who  evidently  slipped  through 
the  wicket  gate  unnoticed.  It  was  ajar  at  the 
time,  so  far  as  I  can  learn." 

' '  Meagher  deserves  all  that  is  coming  to 
him,"  said  Calmore,  a  grim  old  bachelor,  who 
had  little  sympathy  for  woman's  wiles  appar- 
ently. 

"  Yes,  but  all  the  same,  I  am  sorry  for  him," 
returned  Dexter.  "He  was  one  of  the  best 
troopers  in  the  regiment." 

"And  we  can  never  forget  what  he  did  when 
Marion  was  born,"  said  Mrs.  Compton. 

"That  does  not  excuse  him  for  his  con- 
duct," returned  the  colonel. 

"Molly  says  it  is  all  her  fault,"  urged  the 
wife. 

"But  Meagher  will  have  to  take  the  punish- 
ment just  the  same,"  returned  Compton, 
dereliction  of  duty  being  the  one  thing  he 
could  not  pardon. 


DULL  KNIFE'S  OFFER  215 

"  Molly  says  they  will  shoot  him,  but  that  is 
not  possible,  is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Compton. 

"It  is  more  than  possible, "  returned  her 
husband  briefly.  "  Desertion  of  his  post  in 
time  of  war." 

"But  this  isn't  war  exactly,"  pleaded  the 
woman. 

"Is  it  not?"  returned  the  colonel.  "You 
will  see  before  we  get  through  with  that  crowd 
yonder. ' ' 

"And  is  he  likely  to  be  shot?" 

"He  ought  to  be,"  returned  Dexter  bitterly, 
"if  for  no  other  reason  than  the  old  law — a 
life  for  a  life.  That  little  baby  is  worth  a 
thousand  soldiers  who  desert  their  posts." 

"Poor  Meagher,"  said  the  woman  gently, 
choking  back  her  tears.  "It  must  be  awfully 
hard  on  him,  and  he  was  so  fond  of  Marion." 

"Yes,"  repeated  the  colonel,  "but  that 
doesn't  excuse  him." 

"It  will  kill  Molly,"  pleaded  his  wife. 

There  was  a  tap  on  the  door  again.  The 
orderly,  being  bidden,  entered  once  more. 

"The  officer  of  the  guard  says  that  the  pris- 
oner, Trooper  Meagher,  would  like  to  speak 
with  the  commanding  officer." 


216       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"My  compliments  to  Mr.  Dalton,"  returned 
Compton,  "and  tell  Mm  to  send  the  prisoner 
to  my  quarters  at  once." 

"I  wonder  what  he  wants,"  said  Calmore, 
as  the  orderly  departed. 

"Wants  to  beg  off,  I  suppose,"  returned 
Dexter. 

"No,  I  hardly  think  so,"  said  the  colonel. 
"He  isn't  the  kind  that  will  refuse  to  face 
the  music  and  take  his  medicine." 


XV 

IN  WHICH  TKOOPER  MEAGHER 
DESERTS  TO  THE  ENEMY! 

IN  a  few  moments  Meagher  attended  by  a 
corporal's  guard  was  marched  into  the 
colonel's  room.  His  guards  released  him 
and  stepped  back,  the  colonel  motioned  them 
to  remain  in  the  room. 

"Well,"  he  said  sternly. 

Meagher  moistened  his  lips  and  tried  to 
speak,  but  could  make  no  sound. 

"Speak  out,"  said  the  colonel.  "What  do 
you  want?" 

"If  the  colonel  plaises,"  Meagher  at  last 

gasped  out,  "I "  he  found  great  difficulty 

in  continuing. 

"You  have  not  come  to  beg  for  mercy,  have 
you?" 

"No,"  returned  the  trooper,  a  little  color 
coming  to  his  face.  "I  acknowledge  me  fault, 
sor,  an'  'tis  all  mine.  You  won't  do  anything 
to  Molly,  sor!" 

217 


218       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

*  '  What  can  I  do  ?    She  is  a  woman  and  -  '  ' 
"It  was  me  that  tempted  her,  sor.    I  clane 
forgot  meself— 

"There  is  no  'justification  in  that." 
"I  know  it,  sor,  I  know  what  I've  done  an' 
what  I  desarve.  I  know  what  the  court  mar- 
tial will  award  me,  I've  got  nothing  to  say 
ag'in'  the  justice  of  it.  I'm  ready  to  take  me 
punishment  like  a  man.  I  failed  in  me  juty, 
sor,  but  the  colonel  knows  I'm  no  coward,  an' 
Captain  Calmore  knows  it  too,  sor.  '  ' 

"Yes,"  said  Calmore,  thus  appealed  to,  "I 
know  it." 

"You  didn't  come  here  to  tell  us  that,  I 
take  it,"  said  the  colonel.  "I  know  what 
you've  done  for  us  in  the  past.  You've  been  a 
brave  soldier,  but  that  can't  save  you  now 


"I  am  comin'  to  it,  sor.  Next  to  Molly," 
said  Trooper  Danny,  "I  loved  that  babby  of 
yours,  which  I  was  there  when  she  was  born, 
an'  before  I'm  punished  for  me  fault  I'd  like 
to  git  her  away  from  the  red  devils  yonder, 
if  she's  alive." 

"Yes,  we'd  all  like  to  do  that,"  said  Cal- 
more coldly. 


TROOPER  MEAGHER  DESERTS       219 

"Well,  sor,  I  want  to  thry  it,  if  the  colonel 
plaises. ' ' 

"Try  it!"  exclaimed  the  colonel.  "Are  you 
mad?" 

"Oh,  listen  to  him,"  interposed  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton,  who  had  heard,  in  silence,  all  that  had 
transpired.  "He  may  be  able  to  do  something 
for  her." 

"Have  you  a  plan?" 

"I  have,  sor." 

"What  is  it!" 

"  'Tis  to  escape  this  night  an'  pretend  to 
Dull  Knife  an'  his  men  that  I'm  a  desarter, 
an'  by  that  means  to  git  into  their  camp  an' 
then  to  take  a  chance  at  stealin'  away  with 
the  young  missy." 

"Ninety-nine  chances  to  a  hundred  you'd 
get  shot  before  you  could  have  speech  with 
Dull  Knife." 

"Yes,  no  doubt,  sor,  but  I'd  be  glad  to  take 
the  wan  chance  for  the  sake  of  the  child,  if  the 
colonel  would  let  me.  The  court  will  prob- 
ably condemn  me  to  death  anyway,"  pleaded 
Meagher,  "an'  why  not  lave  me  thry  to  be  av 
use  before  I  die;  besides,  sor,  if  I  were  kilt 
that  way,  it  would  save  the  record  of  the  ould 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

regiment,  which  has  never  had  a  case  like 
mine  before.7' 

The  door  from  the  dining-room  was  thrown 
suddenly  open.  Molly  burst  into  the  room  and 
threw  herself  at  the  colonel's  feet.  She  had 
been  listening,  small  blame  to  her,  and  had 
heard  everything. 

"For  the  love  of  hiven,"  she  cried,  "don't 
lave  him  do  it." 

"And  would  you  rather  have  him  shot  as  a 
criminal  by  his  comrades  than  take  that  kind 
of  a  chance  f ' '  asked  the  colonel  coldly,  for  he 
had  not  much  sympathy  for  Molly  after  her 
folly. 

"I  don't  want  him  shot  at  all,  at  all,  for  I 
love  him,  an'  I  don't  care  who  knows  it," 
Molly  cried  boldly  before  them  all. 

"Molly,  is  it  the  truth  you're  sayin'l" 
asked  Meagher,  who  could  not  keep  the  joy  in 
his  heart  at  that  wild  confession  out  of  his 
face  and  voice. 

"By  all  the  saints  it  is,"  returned  the 
woman.  "I  treated  you  shamefully — 'tis  my 
fault." 

"Indeed  'tis  not,"  protested  Danny 
Meagher  earnestly.  "Does  the  colonel  be- 


TROOPER  MEAGHER  DESERTS 

lave  me?  I'm  as  good  as  a  dead  man,  I 
wouldn't  lie  to  him  now." 

"I  don't  believe  you  would,"  Compton  ad- 
mitted. 

"An'  I  swear  I  don't  want  to  pretend  to 
desart  to  save  me  life.  I  want  to  save  the 
child,  an'  I  give  the  colonel  an'  the  other  offi- 
cers present  me  word  av  honor  that  I'll  come 
back  if  I  live,  whether  I  save  the  child  or  not, 
an'  surrender  meself  a  prisoner  for  trial. 
'Tis  only  the  word  of  a  throoper,  sor." 

"The  honor  of  a  private  soldier  of  the 
American  Army  should  be  as  dear  to  him  as 
that  of  any  officer,"  returned  Compton 
gravely. 

"And  it  is,  sor,  thank  your  honor  for  them 
words,"  exclaimed  Meagher. 

"Oh,  Danny,  Danny,"  wailed  the  woman, 
"don't  go!" 

"  'Tis  only  the  colonel's  permission  I  am 
waitin'  for,  Molly  darlin',"  returned  the 
man. 

"What  do  you  think,  Calmore?"  asked 
Compton. 

"I  don't  think  there  is  a  chance  in  the 
world,  but  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I'd  rather 


222       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

have  him  shot  by  the  Indians  than  do  it  our- 
selves, and  it  would  in  a  way  save  the  regi- 
mental record  if  he  could  escape.  We  have 
had  proofs  of  Meagher 's  courage  and  address, 
you  know." 

1  i  I  agree  with  Captain  Calmore, ' '  said  Dex- 
ter in  answer  to  an  interrogative  look  from 
the  colonel.  "I  believe  that  Meagher  means 
what  he  says,  and  there  is  a  bare  chance  that 
he  can  bring  it  off.  I  am  in  favor  of  letting 
him  escape." 

"Let  him  go,  John,"  whispered  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton,  although  no  one  had  asked  her  opinion, 
which,  nevertheless,  had  more  weight  than  any 
other  with  her  husband.  "Perhaps  he  may 
bring  my  baby  back." 

"I'll  bring  that  baby  back  to  you,  ma'am, 
or  I'll  die  the  death  av  a  desarter,  if  the  colonel 
will  only  lave  me  go,"  said  Meagher. 

The  colonel  relapsed  into  a  brown  study. 

"Meagher,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  am  inclined 
to  accede  to  your  request." 

"Hiven  bless  you,  sor,"  answered  Meagher, 
his  face  lightening. 

"You  give  me  your  word  of  honor  that,  suc- 
cessful or  not,  you  will  surrender  yourself  for 


TROOPER  MEAGHER  DESERTS 

trial  again  when  opportunity  arises  and  if 
you  live,  of  course! " 

"Me  word  av  honor,  sor,  so  help  me  God, 
the  Blessed  Virgin,  an'  all  the  saints." 

"I  take  it,"  answered  Compton  briefly. 
"Now  as  to  the  details." 

"The  moon  will  be  up  in  an  hour,  sor,"  re- 
turned Meagher.  "I've  thought  it  all  out.  I 
can  git  over  the  wall  of  the  corral,  slink  along 
the  stockade  till  I  reach  the  meadow  an'  then 
make  a  dash  for  it.  The  men  on  guard  will  fire 
at  me,  the  more  av  them  the  merrier,  an'  if  I 
could  git  hit  an'  slightly  wounded  so  as  not  to 
knock  me  out,  it  would  be  better,  it  would 
make  them  Injuns  belave  then  that  I  was 
honest." 

Molly  McNeil  completely  gave  way  at  this. 
She  lay  on  the  floor  moaning  feebly. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  colonel  sharply  to  his 
wife,  "if  that  woman  doesn't  stop  whimper- 
ing I  will  have  her  taken  out.  Very  well, 
Meagher,  it  shall  be  as  you  say.  Corporal, 
you  have  heard  all  that  passed?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  corporal  of  the 
guard. 

"And  you,  too,  men?" 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  squad,  which  had 
fetched  the  prisoner. 

"Take  the  prisoner  away,  and  send  Mr. 
Dalton,  the  officer  of  the  guard,  and  Sergeant 
Schmidt  to  me." 

"Thank  you,  sor,  an'  God  bless  you,"  cried 
Meagher.  "I'll  do  me  best  to  show  meself  a 
man  an'  to  bring  you  back  the  baby,  ma'am, 
that  I  lost,  bad  cess  to  me." 

"Oh,  Danny,  Danny,"  wailed  Molly. 

Meagher  hesitated,  made  a  step  in  the 
maid's  direction,  but  at  a  gesture  from  the 
colonel  he  checked  himself  and  started  to 
follow  his  guards. 

"Corporal,"  said  the  colonel,  looking  at  the 
frantic  but  beseeching  maid,  "just  let  the 
prisoner  step  into  the  dining-room  alone  a 
moment.  No,  he  won't  run  away  now." 

It  was  quite  evident  what  the  colonel  gave 
the  soldier  that  permission  for  and  Molly 
struggled  to  her  feet,  followed  after  him,  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her.  The  colonel's 
wife  looked  at  him  gratefully  because  of  his 
thoughtful  kindness. 

"Mr.  Dalton,"  said  the  colonel,  as  the  offi- 
cer of  the  guard  accompanied  by  Sergeant 


TROOPER  MEAGHER  DESERTS       225 

Schmidt  entered  the  room,  "I  have  decided  to 
allow  the  prisoner,  Meagher,  to  escape.  He 
intends  to  desert  to  the  Indians  in  the  hope 
that  he  may  be  received  by  them,  and  find  an 
opportunity  to  steal  away  my  little  daughter." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  returned  Dalton,  sur- 
prised indeed,  but  too  good  an  officer  to  show 
any  emotion. 

"You  are  to  let  him  get  over  the  corral 
wall  near  the  stockade.  He  is  to  slink  along 
the  stockade  until  he  gets  to  the  meadow  and 
then  make  a  dash  for  it,  the  guard  is  to  dis- 
cover him  and  open  fire  upon  him  until  he 
gets  out  of  range.  Care  must  be  taken,  how- 
ever, not  to  hit  him,  and  the  firing  must  not  be 
overdone.  Let  it  be  just  what  would  occur 
if  a  prisoner  were  escaping.  Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Schmidt,  you,  too,  comprehend?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well,  we  must  have  no  hitch  about 
the  attempt;  it's  a  forlorn  hope,  but  it  seems 
to  be  our  only  chance." 

"I  will  attend  to  it,  sir." 

"Very  good,  you  can  go." 


226       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

The  colonel  himself  now  stepped  to  the  door 
of  the  dining-room  and  called  Meagher.  The 
trooper  tore  himself  away  from  Molly's  arms 
and,  without  trusting  himself  for  a  backward 
look,  followed  the  colonel.  It  was  Mrs.  Comp- 
ton  who  went  to  the  poor  fainting  foolish 
woman,  who  had  got  them  all  into  such  awful 
trouble. 

The  escape  was  effected  just  as  it  had  been 
planned.  The  troopers  on  guard  had  re- 
ceived their  orders.  As  soon  as  the  form  of 
the  private  was  visible  in  the  meadow  in  the 
moonlight,  they  opened  fire.  Meagher  played 
his  part  to  perfection,  zigzagging  as  he  ran 
with  furious  speed  toward  the  Indians.  The 
carbine  fire  from  the  stockade  was  tremen- 
dous; it  filled  the  whole  valley  with  noise, 
and  awoke  the  Indians  to  instant  attention. 
There  was  quick  mounting  of  ponies  and  rid- 
ing to  the  front.  The  moonlight  made  things 
plainly  visible  and  the  Indians  soon  realized 
that  some  one  was  running  away  from  the  fort. 

Meagher  of  course  was  not  hit,  and  in  a 
short  time  he  was  out  of  range.  He  kept 
on  running,  however,  while  Compton  and  Dex- 
ter and  Calmore  watched  him  eagerly  from  the 


TROOPER  MEAGHER  DESERTS       237 

watch  tower.  Just  before  he  reached  the  fore- 
most of  the  Indians  something  happened  that 
was  not  in  the  program.  From  the  woods  off  to 
the  right  came  a  sudden  flash  of  light  followed 
presently  by  the  sharper  crash  of  a  heavy 
rifle.  At  the  same  time  Meagher  pitched  for- 
ward and  fell  prone  on  the  grass.  He  was  im- 
mediately surrounded  by  Indians  and  they 
could  not  see  what  further  became  of  him. 

"He's  killed!"  exclaimed  Compton  in  great 
dismay.  "Who  could  have  fired  that  shot? 
Our  last  hope  is  gone." 

The  three  officers  stood  gloomily  watching. 
They  saw,  or  thought  they  saw,  a  figure 
hauled  from  the  ground  and  laid  across  one  of 
the  horses,  after  which  the  Indians  turned  back 
to  the  hills.  They  were  just  turning  to  de- 
scend the  tower  when  a  man  broke  out  of  the 
woods  and  hailed  the  fort. 

"Don't  shoot,"  cried  a  voice  they  all  recog- 
nized. "It's  Marnette." 

The  colonel  in  an  instant  plunged  down  the 
stairs  to  the  wicket  gate  and  met  the  old 
scout. 

"Wall,  colonel,"  said  Marnette  cheerfully, 
"I  plugged  that  deserter  all  right." 


MS       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Oh,  Marnette,"  said  Compton  gravely, 
"I  am  afraid  you  have  spoiled  our  only 
chance. ' ' 

"How's  that?"  asked  the  scout  quickly  as 
he  entered  the  post. 

"That  was  Danny  Meagher.  It  was  all  a 
scheme  between  us,  he  was  to  pretend  to  de- 
sert so  as  to  get  a  chance  to  rescue  my  baby." 

"Is  that  Mrs.  Compton 's  babby  I  seed  with 
the  Indians?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  colonel. 

"  I  'm  mighty  sorry  I  drawed  a  bead  on  him. 
I  seen  him  break  away  an'  I  heard  all  the 
shootin'  an'  I  nachur'ly  thought  you  wanted 
to  git  him.  I  wouldn't  have  done  it  for  the 
world.  How  did  they  ever  git  ahold  of  her?" 

"You  are  not  to  blame  and  it  cannot  be 
helped,"  answered  Compton,  after  briefly  ex- 
plaining the  circumstances.  "It  almost  seems 
as  if  every  sort  of  luck  were  against  us." 

"Tain't  so  bad  as  that,"  answered  Mar- 
nette  gravely,  yet  with  a  certain  reassuring 
cheerfulness  and  confidence.  "I  know  them 
Injuns  well,  I  think  there  ain't  no  one  in  this 
country  that  knows  'em  better;  they  won't  3o 
no  hurt  to  the  babby,  they'll  likely  adopt  her 


TROOPER  MEAGHER  DESERTS 

into  the  tribe,  thinkin'  to  save  her  for  some 
chief's  squaw  when  she  grows  up,  colonel. 
But  we'll  git  her  long  afore  that.  I  didn't 
come  in  with  Cap'n  Calmore  this  afternoon, 
because  I  wanted  to  find  out  something  about 
'em.  It  is  Dull  Knife  hisself.  There's  nigh 
onto  a  thousand  of  'em.  They  seemed  to  have 
outgeneraled  Crook  an'  Miles  an'  all  the  rest 
of  the  soldiers,  there  ain't  been  a  battle  so  far 
as  I  can  find  out,  but  they  left  Crazy  Horse 
and  made  a  quick  dash  here,  hopin'  to  find  you 
off  your  guard  at  the  post  and  seize  it  an' 
then  make  a  quick  gitaway. ' ' 

"Dull  Knife  sent  me  a  letter  written  by  some 
half-breed,  offering  to  exchange  the  baby  for 
the  post,  and  saying  they  would  kill  her  if  I 
didn't  accede  to  his  demand." 

"It's  jest  a  bluff,  colonel,"  said  Marnette. 
"Now,  with  your  permission, — I  had  to  turn 
my  pony  loose  in  the  woods  yonder — after  I 
git  a  little  rest  an'  somethin'  to  eat  an'  drink, 
I'm  goin'  to  git  some  young  soldier  here  to 
go  with  me  an'  git  away  south  an'  east  until 
I  strike  a  telegraph  station  an'  git  help  for 
you,  unless  you've  got  a  better  plan,  for 
they're  goin'  to  attack  you  in  the  morning." 


230       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Let  me  go  with  Mm,  sir,"  said  Hadden. 

"Well,  Mr.  Hadden,"  said  Marnette, 
shrewdly  sizing  up  the  young  officer,  with 
whom  he  had  maintained  an  acquaintance, 
since  the  day  he  met  him  first  at  the  Big 
Meadows,  "if  the  colonel  sez  so,  I'd  about  as 
soon  have  you  for  trail  mate  an'  fightin'  mate 
as  anybody  in  this  yere  post." 

"Thank  you,  Marnette,"  said  Hadden. 

1 '  Take  Hadden  if  you  wish, ' '  said  Compton, 
"although  he  is  one  of  my  best  officers  and  I 
can  hardly  spare  him. ' ' 

"We'll  be  back  afore  the  fightin'  is  over," 
said  Marnette. 

"And  now,  if  you  will  go  over  to  my  quar- 
ters you  will  find  something  to  eat  there." 

"And  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  hearten  up 
Mrs.  Compton,"  answered  the  old  scout. 
"Why,  I  love  that  babby  as  if  'twas  my  own; 
I  was  there  when  your  lady  borned  her  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  be  here  when  she  is  brung  back  to 
her  mother." 


XVI 

IN  WHICH  THE  OLD  EEGIMENT 

MARCHES  AWAY  TO  HUNT 

FOE  THE  BABY 

MARNETTE  and  Hadden  got  away 
safely  that  night.  As  Marnette  had 
anticipated,  the  Indians  attacked  the 
post  early  the  next  morning.  Short  of  an 
escalade  they  tried  every  other  possible  way 
to  capture  it,  managing  even  to  set  fire  to  it, 
but  their  efforts  availed  them  nothing.  The 
soldiers  easily  drove  them  back,  killing  many 
of  them.  They  had  not  a  chance  on  earth  to 
succeed  with  the  tactics  they  employed,  and 
as  water  and  provisions  abounded  in  the 
stockade,  the  garrison  suffered  no  special 
hardship;  in  short,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
loss  of  the  baby  the  whole  affair  would  have 
been  rather  enjoyable  than  otherwise  for  the 
soldiers. 

That  fact,  however,  preyed  on  the  whole  gar- 
rison.    There  never  was  a  body  of  soldiers 

231 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

who  longed  more  earnestly  to  go  out  in  the 
open  and  grapple  with  their  red  besiegers  than 
they.  The  Indians  wanted  that,  too,  their 
overwhelming  numbers,  their  knowledge  of 
the  rough,  broken,  mountainous  country,  so 
well  suited  for  ambush  and  surprise,  so  easily 
defensible,  ensuring  them  an  easy  victory  over 
so  small  a  force.  They  could  cut  it  to  pieces. 
Therefore  to  entice  the  troops  away  from  the 
post  was  what  the  Indians  most  particularly 
desired,  they  would  have  made  mincemeat  of 
the  soldiers  if  they  could  have  got  them  in  the 
open,  for  they  were  better  armed  and  prac- 
tically as  well  mounted  as  the  troopers.  The 
cavalry  horse  was  no  better  for  service  pur- 
poses in  that  country  than  the  Indian  pony, 
and  the  Cheyennes  possessed  a  large  number 
of  remounts,  which  the  soldiers  did  not  have. 

Again,  the  Winchester  repeating  rifle  with 
which  the  braves  were  all  armed  was  a  more 
serviceable  weapon  than  the  cavalry  carbine. 
Furthermore,  the  hills  would  have  afforded 
abundant  cover  for  the  Indians  and  the  small 
force  of  soldiers  would  have  been  caught  in 
the  defiles  and  exterminated.  Dull  Knife  was 
one  of  Crazy  Horse's  best  lieutenants,  and  in 


THE  HUNT  FOR  THE  BABY          233 

many  a  campaign  had  shown  his  strategy  and 
tactics.  On  that  score  he  was  a  worthy 
antagonist  for  the  very  best  commanders  in 
the  Army. 

The  Indians,  who  had  not  yet  killed  the 
baby,  used  her  to  irritate  the  soldiers.  They 
displayed  her  just  out  of  range  where  she 
could  easily  be  seen  by  the  garrison:  some- 
times they  struck  her,  or  appeared  otherwise 
to  maltreat  her.  Those  were  the  things 
hardest  to  bear. 

Marion  Compton  witnessed  these  evidences 
of  savage  barbarity,  for  the  soldiers  could  not 
keep  the  wretched,  heart-broken  mother  away 
from  the  tower  short  of  taking  her  thence  by 
force.  Her  feelings  were  harrowing  to  a  de- 
gree, yet  she  got  a  certain  kind  of  satisfaction 
from  the  evidence  that  the  child  was  still  alive. 

After  four  days  of  this  desultory  siege, 
Marnette  crept  into  the  fort  one  night  and 
brought  the  welcome  news  that  Colonel  Hunt- 
ley,  from  the  nearest  post  to  the  east,  was 
coming  up  with  a  battalion  of  infantry  and 
two  troops  of  cavalry.  The  foot  soldiers  had 
been  loaded  into  wagons  and  they  were  com- 
ing almost  as  fast  as  the  mounted  men. 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

Marnette  transmitted  to  Colonel  Compton 
a  plan  of  attack  formed  by  Colonel  Huntley, 
by  which  it  was  arranged  that  the  garrison 
of  the  fort,  on  a  given  signal,  should  make  a 
demonstration  in  force,  by  a  sortie,  while  he 
fell  on  the  rear  of  the  Indians.  But  the  In- 
dians were  better  served  by  their  scouting 
parties  than  were  the  soldiers,  and  when 
Colonel  Huntley 's  force  arrived  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  post  early  the  next  morning,  they  had 
broken  camp  and  moved  away  to  the  north- 
west through  the  mountain  passes. 

The  siege  was  thus  raised,  and  with  the  de- 
parture of  the  Cheyennes  the  peril  to  that 
country  was  over.  Biding  over  the  place 
where  the  Indians  had  camped  one  of  the  sol- 
diers found  a  little  girl's  shoe,  which  he 
brought  back  to  Mrs.  Compton.  That  was  all 
that  was  left  on  the  field  of  the  child.  In  all 
these  days  nothing  had  been  seen  of  Danny 
Meagher.  The  Indians  had  carried  off  the 
bodies  of  those  who  had  been  killed  in  the 
skirmishing.  It  was  thought  they  might  have 
scalped  and  left  the  remains  of  the  soldier, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  him  anywhere.  The 
colonel  took  some  comfort  in  this.  He  be- 


THE  HUNT  FOR  THE  BABY          235 

lieved  that  Meagher  might  be  alive  and  pos- 
sibly able  to  effect  something,  but  Marnette 
privately  held  a  contrary  view;  he  had  drawn 
a  bead  on  the  soldier,  the  shot  had  been  easy, 
and  he  was  not  accustomed  to  missing  his  aim. 
He  did  not  say  anything  about  this,  however; 
it  would  have  been  cruel  to  take  away  from  the 
parents  of  the  little  girl  the  hope  upon  which 
they  so  much  depended. 

The  newspaper  men  had  accompanied  Colo- 
nel Huntley;  having  soon  learned  the  story 
of  the  baby  it  was  promptly  spread  broadcast 
over  the  United  States.  Public  opinion  was 
greatly  aroused,  Colonel  Compton's  heroic 
resolution,  in  sacrificing  his  child  to  his  duty 
as  a  soldier,  meeting  with  instant  commenda- 
tion. 

And  the  commanding  officer  of  the  Four- 
teenth having  opportunely  received  the  much 
coveted  star  of  a  brigadier-general,  Compton 
found  himself,  while  still  a  young  man,  left  in 
command  of  the  regiment,  the  new  colonel 
being  kept  on  staff  duty,  to  the  approval  of 
every  one. 

Public  opinion  did  more  than  approve.  It 
clamored  for  a  winter  campaign  against  Dull 


286       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

Knife,  and  for  the  annihilation  of  his  band 
which  had  been  guilty  of  other  atrocious 
cruelties  and  maraudings.  It  had  been  the 
policy  of  the  War  Department  hitherto  to  con- 
fine its  expeditions  to  the  open  seasons,  es- 
pecially in  the  mountainous  countries,  and  to 
place  the  troops  in  forts  and  cantonments  dur- 
ing the  winter.  A  different  policy  was  to  be 
followed  now,  and  Colonel  Compton's  earnest 
request  to  take  the  field,  backed  as  it  was  by 
an  overwhelming  public  demand  so  soon  as 
it  was  learned  that  his  whole  regiment  was 
assembled  at  Fort  Sullivan  equipped  for  a 
winter  campaign,  was  promptly  granted. 
Again  he  was  given  an  independent  command, 
although  he  was  the  youngest  lieutenant- 
colonel  in  the  army,  with  orders  to  go  where 
he  would  and  to  do  what  he  might  to  run  down 
Dull  Knife,  to  find  his  child,  rescue  her  if  she 
were  alive  or  to  avenge  her  if  she  had  been 
killed,  by  breaking  up  or  bringing  in  the  pesti- 
lential band. 

It  was  a  sad  yet  glorious  day  at  Fort  Sulli- 
van, when  the  regiment,  assembled  for  the  first 
time  in  its  history,  ten  troops  each,  fifty  strong, 
marched  away.  It  was  a  bright  winter  morn- 


THE  HUNT  FOR  THE  BABY          237 

ing  in  December  when  they  paraded  for  the 
last  time  in  the  meadow. 

They  broke  ranks  for  a  few  brief  and  hur- 
ried moments  of  farewell,  all  too  short,  before 
the  final  assembly  was  sounded. 

Poor  Marion  Compton  clung  to  her  gallant 
husband  before  the  whole  regiment,  as  the  rest 
of  the  women  did  to  those  whom  they  loved. 

"I  will  find  her,  darling, "  said  the  colonel 
reassuringly,  "if  she  is  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  Somewhere  in  those  mountains  Dull 
Knife  is  hidden  for  the  winter.  We  will  comb 
them  until  we  find  him,  we  will  unearth  him  in 
the  most  secret  ravine  of  the  deepest  canyon." 

"And  you  will  be  careful,  dearest,"  whis- 
pered his  wife,  "careful  of  yourself.  You 
know  I  have  only  you  now." 

"Careful  of  my  men  perhaps,"  said  Comp- 
ton, smiling  at  her,  "but  in  expeditions  of  this 
kind,  you  know,  the  commander  must  lead. ' ' 

"You  will  watch  over  him,  Mr.  Marnette, 
won't  you?"  pleaded  the  wife,  turning  to  the 
old  hunter  who  was  to  accompany  the  expedi- 
tion as  chief-of-scouts.  Marnette  was  never 
very  far  away  from  the  colonel's  side. 

"It's  like  askin'  me  to  look  after  a  lightnin' 


238       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

flash, "  answered  the  old  man,  smiling  kindly 
at  her,  for  he  loved  her  very  much  and  had  for 
a  long  time,  "an'  nobody  but  God  can  really 
look  after  Colonel  Compton,  but  I'll  do  my 
best,  ma'am.  I  got  a  hunch,  too,  that  we're 
goin'  to  bring  back  the  little  gal." 

"If  the  colonel  pleases,  sor,"  said  Molly, 
who  was  Mrs.  Compton 's  constant  and  faith- 
ful attendant,  "will  you  please,  sor,  thry  to 
find  out  what  is  become  of  poor  Danny 
Meagher,  and  if  he  is  alive,  will  you  tell  him 
I  am  pinin'  away  for  a  sight  of  him?" 

"That  I  will,  Molly,"  said  the  colonel,  look- 
ing kindly  into  her  pale  face  whence  the  roses 
had  all  departed.  He  had  long  since  forgiven 
poor  Molly  her  folly.  i '  Now,  Marion,  we  can 't 
stay  any  longer." 

He  kissed  his  wife's  cold  cheek  before  them 
all  in  that  snow-covered  meadow  on  that  bright 
winter  morning.  Then  he  turned  to  his  or- 
derly, mounted  his  horse,  nodded  to  the  bugler, 
and  the  clear  notes  of  the  assembly  call  rang 
over  the  little  plain.  Compton  drew  his  sword 
when  the  regiment  was  formed,  spoke  a  sharp 
word  of  command,  when  the  cheering  died 
away,  and  then  all  took  up  the  march. 


THE  HUNT  FOR  THE  BABY          239 

The  band  which  was  to  stay  behind  with  the 
two  companies  of  infantry,  which  had  been 
detailed  to  garrison  the  post  until  the  Four- 
teenth came  back,  played  merrily  the  famous 
battle  air  of  the  regiment.  The  women  and 
children,  wrapped  in  furs,  stood  in  the  mea- 
dow looking  long  after  the  column  trotting 
across  the  clearing  and  disappearing  among 
the  snow-covered  foothills.  They  were  headed 
for  the  great  range,  somewhere  in  the  heart  of 
which  lurked  the  great  and  redoubtable  chief 
and  his  cruel  warriors,  like  a  group  of  savage 
lions  in  their  lair. 


XVII 

DISCLOSES  HOW  DANNY  MEAGHER 
SHOWED  THEM  THE  WAY 

NEITHER  horses  nor  men  had  ever  sus- 
tained such  hardships  or  carried  on  a 
campaign  under  such  frightful  difficul- 
ties as  Compton's  column  encountered.  When 
they  started  they  had  been  accompanied  by  a 
body  of  Shoshone  scouts,  but  the  intense  cold, 
coupled  with  the  heavy  snows  which  filled  the 
passes,  had  discouraged  these  Indian  aux- 
iliaries. They  soon  straggled  away  and  aban- 
doned the  column.  Yet  they  had  no  difficulty 
in  their  trailing,  because  of  the  skill  and  devo- 
tion of  Marnette,  who  as  chief-of-scouts  had 
associated  with  himself  a  band  of  hardy,  well- 
skilled,  experienced  frontiersmen.  It  resolved 
itself  into  a  white  man's  expedition  therefore. 
Dull  Knife  and  his  band  had  concealed  them- 
selves for  the  winter  in  the  hidden  recesses  of 
the  mountains,  which  were  traversed  in  every 
direction  by  a  network  of  deep  canyons 

240 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY 

through  many  of  which  flowed  icy  rivers.  The 
rude  almost  impassable  trails  along  the  sides 
of  these  rifts  in  the  mountains  at  this  time 
were  covered  with  snow.  The  regiment  had 
been  out  of  touch  with  civilization  for  at  least 
a  week,  and  had  penetrated  far  into  the  moun- 
tain range,  before  its  advance  was  halted  and 
scouting  parties  had  been  sent  out  from  the 
permanent  camp  in  every  direction.  Can- 
yon after  canyon  had  been  examined  with  no 
results  whatever.  The  fierce  wind  and  the  drift- 
ing snow  had  obliterated  the  trails  the  Chey- 
ennes  might  have  left.  Neither  scout  nor  sol- 
dier found  a  trace  of  them. 

The  other  Indian  bands  of  Sioux  and  Chey- 
ennes  who  had  been  on  the  warpath  the  pre- 
vious summer  had  been  located  and  were 
under  observation,  but  Dull  Knife's  band  had 
so  far  remained  concealed.  As  it  had  been 
Dull  Knife's  band  that  had  carried  off  the 
colonel's  daughter,  Compton  was  certain  that 
if  alive  she  would  be  found  with  this  group 
of  Cheyennes;  he  therefore  prosecuted  his 
search  with  the  most  desperate  determination. 

The  suif  erings  of  the  horses  and  the  soldiers 
were  terrible,  but  the  troopers  endured  every- 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

thing  without  murmuring.  They  responded  to 
every  demand  made  on  them  with  a  cheerful 
enthusiasm  which  no  cold  was  able  to  freeze 
out  of  them. 

Strange  pictures  they  presented,  coming  in 
from  scout  or  mounted-guard  duty,  clad  in 
their  great  snow-encrusted  buffalo  overcoats, 
huge  fur  caps,  and  gloves,  with  their  beards 
and  mustaches  frosted  with  ice  and  snow! 
But  it  was  certain  to  Compton  that  the  regi- 
ment had  about  reached  the  limit  of  human 
endurance.  Unless  Dull  Knife  were  soon 
found,  if  he  did  not  wish  his  men  to  be  frozen 
to  death  in  that  ghastly  wilderness  of  snow 
and  ice  and  withering  cold,  he  would  have  to 
break  camp  and  return  to  the  fort. 

Nothing  had  been  heard  from  Danny 
Meagher.  No  one  knew  whether  he  was  alive 
or  dead.  With  despair  in  his  heart,  Compton 
called  a  council  of  war,  which  met  around  a 
huge  fire  in  the  midst  of  the  camp. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "it  is  evident  that 
the  men  can 't  stand  this  much  longer.  A  more 
cheerful,  willing,  courageous  lot  I  have  never 
commanded.  They  have  done  everything  that 
mortal  man  could  ask,  but  forage  is  running 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY     243 

low,  rations  are  getting  scarce,  I  dare  not  keep 
them  out  much  longer.  What  do  you  think?'' 

Calmore  and  Dexter,  who  had  both  been 
promoted  to  majors,  looked  at  each  other. 
Dexter,  as  the  younger,  spoke  first. 

"I  hate  to  say  it,  colonel,  but  I  suppose  you 
are  right." 

"Yes,"  added  Calmore,  "unless  we  can  find 
them  in  a  day  or  two,  we  shall  have  to  move 
out." 

"We  haven't  rations  for  more  than  four 
days  longer,  sir,"  said  the  commissary. 

"A  lot  of  the  men  are  already  suffering 
from  frost-bite.  If  this  keeps  up  I  can't  an- 
swer for  the  health  of  the  command,  sir,"  said 
Osmond,  the  major  surgeon. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  colonel,  "I  believe 
it  will  kill  my  wife  if  we  come  back  without 
the  baby." 

"I  know,"  said  Calmore,  speaking  for  all 
the  others. 

"Well,"  said  Dexter,  "you  needn't  decide 
anything  to-night.  We  can't  do  anything  until 
K  troop  returns." 

"Marnette  and  Hadden  started  day  before 
yesterday  and  were  only  rationed  for  three 


244       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

days.  They  must  be  back  to-night, "  said  the 
colonel.  "Well,  gentlemen,  if  they  don't  bring 
a  favorable  report,  we  will  break  camp  in  the 
morning  and  go  back  to  Fort  Sullivan." 

"I  hate  to  do  it,"  growled  Calmore. 

"And  I,"  added  Dexter. 

"And  think  what  it  means  to  me,"  said  the 
colonel.  "Yet  I  have  no  option,  I  can't  let 
these  men  freeze  to  death." 

Just  before  dark  that  night,  Hadden  and  his 
troop  came  in.  They  were  covered  with  frost 
and  snow,  and  some  of  the  men  were  freezing. 
The  poor  horses  were  in  a  state  of  complete 
exhaustion,  they  had  covered  miles  of  intricate 
trails,  but  had  found  nothing.  Disconsolately, 
dejectedly,  they  made  their  report  to  the 
colonel. 

"He  is  in  there  somewheres,  curse  him," 
said  old  Marnette,  brushing  the  ice  from  his 
face  with  both  hands  and  warming  himself  by 
the  camp  fire.  "We've  jest  got  to  find  him." 

"I  am  afraid  we  can't  do  it  now,  old  friend," 
said  Compton.  "We  have  rations  and  forage 
enough  just  about  to  get  us  back  to  Fort  Sul- 
livan. The  men  can't  stand  this  any  more." 

"But  they've  jest  got  to  stand  it,"  said  old 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY     245 

Marnette  stubbornly.  "I'll  never  go  back  to 
the  fort  and  face  your  wife  without  that 
babby,  or  tidings  of  her,  as  long  as  I  can  set 
a  horse  or  pull  a  trigger. ' ' 

"That  is  all  very  well  for  you,  Marnette, 
but  I  am  responsible  for  the  lives  of  these  men 
and  the  safety  of  this  command.  If  I  were 
alone  I  would  stay  here  in  these  mountains 
with  you  until  we  died  before  we  gave  up." 

"Colonel,"  said  Calmore,  who  was  standing 
by,  "give  us  one  more  day;  we  could  stretch 
our  supplies  to  cover  five  days  by  going  on 
short  rations.  I  know  the  men,  they  will  take 
a  long  chance  at  starvation  before  they  will 
go  back  beaten.  I  know  the  United  States, 
too,  and  the  people  of  this  country  have  got 
their  eyes  on  this  column.  We  can't  afford  to 
go  back  unsuccessful." 

"Let  me  ascertain  the  feeling  of  the  men," 
said  Compton. 

Leaving  the  little  group  around  the  head- 
quarters fire,  the  colonel  walked  from  one 
troop  camp  to  another.  What  he  said  to  the 
first,  he  said  in  effect  to  them  all ;  it  ran  some- 
thing like  this,  the  men  crowding  around  him 
to  listen: 


246       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Men,  we  know  Dull  Knife  is  in  the  moun- 
tains somewhere,  but  we  haven't  yet  found 
him.  We've  got  four  days'  rations  and  for- 
age left,  which  we  might  stretch  to  cover  five 
or  six.  You  have  shown  a  courage  and  devo- 
tion and  willingness  to  do  everything  that  men 
could  that's  beyond  all  praise.  As  I  am  re- 
sponsible for  you,  I  ought  to  break  camp  and 
march  back  to  Fort  Sullivan  to-morrow. 
But,  although  I  can't  bear  to  give  up,  which 
isn't  the  habit  of  the  Fourteenth  Cavalry,  I 
feel  that  I  cannot  keep  you  here  unless  you 
are  willing  to  stay.  I  will  make  a  return  party 
out  of  those  who  want  to  go  back.  With  the 
rest,  I'll  stay  in  the  mountains  to  the  very 
limit  of  safety  and  possibility,  and  beyond. 
Who  wants  to  go  back!" 

The  troop  he  was  addressing  was  that  of 
which  old  Schmidt  was  first  sergeant. 

"Gott  in  Himmel!  ve  vill  shtay  mit  you, 
colonel,  ain't  it,  boys  I"  he  began  fiercely. 

"Sergeant's  right,  sir,"  exclaimed  a 
trooper. 

"We'll  live  a  week  on  them  four  days' 
provisions,"  said  another. 

"We  won't  go  back  without  making  a  kill- 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY     247 

ing  of  Dull  Knife's  braves,"  boldly  cried  a 
third. 

"All  who  vill  shtay  fall  in  line  und  shtandt 
at  adention,"  growled  old  Schmidt. 

The  whole  body  fell  in  line  instantly.  Not  a 
single  man  even  hesitated.  The  colonel's  eyes 
shone  with  pleasure. 

"You  are  a  body  of  soldiers  and  gentle- 
men," he  said,  gravely  saluting  them,  "that 
any  man  on  earth  would  be  honored  to  com- 
mand. There  are  no  better  men  in  this  army 
or  in  any  other  army,  I  am  sure." 

What  happened  in  that  troop  happened 
in  all  the  others ;  there  was  not  a  single  officer 
or  man  who  wanted  to  go  back.  The  whole 
regiment,  five  hundred  strong,  had  volun- 
teered. 

"I  knowd  how  't  would  be,"  said  Marnette, 
after  they  had  thoroughly  talked  it  over; 
"them  fellers  is  game  an'  grit  down  to  their 
heels,  you  couldn't  freeze  it  out  of  'em  at  the 
north  pole,  an'  you  couldn't  burn  it  out  of 
'em  in  hell  either." 

"What  do  you  advise  now?"  asked  the 
colonel.  "You  know  we've  got  to  make  it  this 
time." 


248       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

Old  Marnette  thought  deeply,  so  much  de- 
pended upon  him  that  he  would  fain  give  no 
hasty  judgment.  At  last  he  spoke,  carefully 
weighing  his  words. 

"We've  sent  out  three  scoutin'  parties  an' 
we've  done  the  northeast  pretty  well,  but  we've 
kind  a  neglected  the  s'uthern  part,  not  thinkin' 
of  Dull  Knife  gittin'  down  so  near  the  settle- 
ments. Mebbe  he's  counted  on  that,  an'  is 
down  in  there  somewheres  waitin'  for  the 
spring  to  break  up  the  snow  an'  give  him  a 
chance  to  git  north  an'  join  the  Sioux  in  the 
open  country  where  there's  good  buffaler 
huntin'  still.  Let's  try  to  the  s'uth'ard." 

1 ' Your  advice  is  good,"  said  Compton.  "I 
think  I  will  send  out  three  different  parties  to 
scout  south;  you  will  take  one,  Grouard  an- 
other, and " 

"Let  me  have  the  third,"  said  Calmore. 
"You  know  I  know  this  game  about  as  well  as 
anybody,  except  yourself  and— 

"Good,"  answered  the  colonel.  "We  will 
detail  a  lieutenant  and  twenty  men  to  go  with 
each  leader,  take  the  best  men  and  the  best 
horses  in  the  regiment.  We  will  give  you 
three  days;  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  must 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY  249 

be  back,  that's  the  limit  of  our  endurance. 
Meanwhile  I'll  try  to  organize  some  hunting 
parties  to  see  if  we  can't  get  some  game  to 
eke  out  our  rations." 

"I've  got  a  hunch,"  said  Marnette,  "that 
we  are  goin'  to  git  him  this  time." 

The  little  colloquy  was  broken  by  a  rifle 
shot  from  the  farthest  sentry  to  the  west- 
ward, who  was  stationed  where  he  could  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  pass  through  which  raced 
a  little  brook  so  furiously  that  even  the  in- 
tense cold  had  not  yet  frozen  it.  It  was  quite 
dark  by  this  time  and  Colonel  Compton  with 
the  other  officers  of  the  staff  hurried  to  the 
picket  line.  A  short  distance  away,  seen 
dimly  in  the  dusk  and  falling  snow,  stood  a 
solitary  Indian,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  an 
eagle  feather  rising  from  his  head. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  colonel  of  the  offi- 
cer of  the  guard. 

"There's  an  Indian  out  there,  sir,"  an- 
swered Lieutenant  Alderdice.  "He  seems  to 
want  to  speak  to  us,  but  I  have  ordered  him  to 
stay  where  he  was,  not  to  make  a  move  under 
pain  of  death.  He  has  been  hallooing  at  us— 
there  he  goes  again." 


250       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

There  was  a  lull  in  the  wind  at  the  time, 
and  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  hailed  the 
voice  of  the  Indian  was  plainly  audible  to 
them  all. 

' ' Don't  shoot,"  came  faintly.  "Pm  a  white 
man." 

"That's  no  Indian,"  said  Compton.  "I 
seem  to  know  that  voice." 

"And  I,"  exclaimed  Dexter. 

"That  will  be  Meagher,"  cried  Calmore. 

The  colonel  darted  past  the  sentinel  and 
pushed  through  the  snow,  with  Calmore  fol- 
lowing. 

"Keep  them  both  covered,"  ordered  Dex- 
ter, who  remained  with  the  officer  of  the 
guard,  "and  if  it  should  prove  to  be  an  In- 
dian and  there  is  any  treachery,  give  him  a 
bullet  at  the  first  move. ' ' 

But  there  was  no  treachery,  the  Indian 
dropped  his  blanket  as  the  colonel  drew  near 
and  those  who  covered  him  saw  him  salute, 
and  the  next  instant  the  colonel  had  him  by 
the  hand,  shaking  it  furiously. 

' '  Meagher, ' '  he  cried,  "  is  it  you  ? ' ' 

"It  is,  sor." 

"And  Marion?" 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY     251 

"Safe  an'  well,  sor,  at  this  minute.'' 

"Where  is  she?" 

"As  near  as  I  can  judge,  sor,  she's  about  fif- 
teen miles  away  in  Dull  Knife's  village. 

"Not  up  this  canyon?"  asked  the  colonel. 
"We  scouted  that  carefully  when  we  first 
came. ' ' 

"You  missed  the  little  canyon  that  leads 
off  from  it,  sor,  about  eight  miles  up  an'  about 
six  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains.  Dull 
Knife  is  there." 

"Can  you  lead  us  to  the  spot?" 

1  i  I  am  afraid  not,  sor.  I  have  got  to  be  back 
before  marnin',  they  don't  quite  thrust  me 
yit.  I'm  supposed  to  be  on  a  hunt,  an'  if  I'm 
not  there  in  the  marnin',  they  might  do  some 
harrum  to  the  child." 

"Can't  you  guide  us  there?" 

"I  could,  sor,  but  I'd  better  not." 

"Why  not?" 

"Well,  you  see,  sor,  I  can  tell  you  the  way 
so  that  you  can  find  it  yourselves.  I  know  a 
thrail  over  the  range  an'  I  can  cut  across  the 
country  an'  git  to  the  camp  long  before  you 
do.  I'd  better  be  there  when  you  attack,  for 
there's  no  telling  what  they  might  do  to  the 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

child  if  they  get  a  chance  when  the  troops 
burst  in  on  them. ' ' 

" How  many  are  there?" 

"Over  six  hundred,  sor." 

"  Braves  1" 

"Yes,  sor,  an  women  an'  children  besides. 
Dull  Knife  has  found  a  regular  hole  in  the 
wall,  a  pocket  where  they  are  camped,  there 
is  only  wan  way  in  an'  another  way  out." 

"Thank  God,  she  is  alive.  Have  they  mis- 
treated her?" 

"No,  sor,  she  is  rather  a  pet  of  the  chafe, 
he's  dressed  her  out  in  buckskin  an'  even  had 
a  little  war  bonnet  made  for  her,  for  all  she 's 
a  girl." 

"Is  she  well?" 

"Well  an'  happy  as  she  can  be,  save  for 
wantin'  her  mother,  sor." 

"How  did  you  escape?" 

"You  see,  sor,  the  lasht  man  that  fired  at 
me  as  I  run  across  the  meadow  came  near  to 
gittin'  me.  As  it  happened  I  shtumbled  an' 
fell  jist  as  he  pulled  the  trigger,  the  bullet  cut 
across  the  back  of  me  skull,  an'  stunned  me." 

"It  was  a  lucky  stumble,"  said  the  colonel. 
"That  was  Marnette." 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY 

" Glory  be!"  cried  Danny. 

"And  what  happened  next! " 

"When  I  came  to  I  was  in  the  midst  of  'em, 
sor,  an7  they  was  debatin'  how  they'd  kill  me. 
I  tould  'em  I  was  desartin'  on  account  of  bad 
thratemint  at  your  hands,  sor.  There  was  a 
half-brade  interpretin'  for  'em.  But  I  doubt 
I'd  'a'  been  kilt  entirely  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  babby,  sor." 

"What  did  she  do?" 

6 '  She  broke  away  from  the  squaws  that  was 
kapin'  her  an'  run  to  me  where  I  was  lyin' 
bound  that  tight  I  couldn't  move  hand  or  foot 
an'  me  thinkin'  it  was  all  up  an'  bein'  more 
sorry  for  Mrs.  Compton  than  meself,  so  help 
me  God." 

"I  know,  I  know." 

"Well,  sor,  the  child  was  already  afther 
winnin'  old  Dull  Knife's  heart  wid  her  swate 
ways,  an'  now  'tis  nothin'  he  can  deny  her. 
All  the  pappooses  in  the  camp  is  jealous  av 
her.  You  should  see  her  lord  it  over  'em, 
sor." 

"Go  on,  go  on." 

"Well,  sor,  she  ups  an'  runs  to  me,  an' 
takes  me  head  in  her  little  arrums  an'  sez, 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

'My  Danny,'  jest  as  brave,  sor,  'I  want  Danny 
to  play  wid  me.'  An'  the  upshot  of  it  all  was 
that  afther  questionin'  me  they  adopted  me 
into  the  thribe  in  a  sort  av  way  an'  give  me 
the  job  of  lookin'  afther  the  babby.  I  got  to 
be  awful  careful,  too,  sor,  for  old  Dull  Knife's 
that  jealous.  He's  lamed  that  it  is  the  same 
babby  he  nearly  got  from  us  all  in  the  Big 
Meadows  an'  that  makes  thim  think  more  av 
her  than  iver." 

1 i There  is  some  good  in  him,  then." 

"Not  much,  sor,  if  you  could  hear  the  things 
I've  heard  av  battle  an'  murder  an'  outrage. 
Begorry,  sor,  it  makes  me  blood  run  could. 
I'm  afraid  always  the  old  villain  may  take  a 
notion  to  kill  her.  'Tis  more  than  wan  babby 's 
scalp  he's  got.  But  'tis  a  long  shtory  to  tell 
all  av  it " 

"You're  right.  We  haven't  time  to  hear 
more  of  that  story  now,  Meagher,  terribly  in- 
teresting as  it  is.  You  say  you  will  go  back 
over  the  mountains?" 

"Yes,  sor,  'tis  only  about  tin  miles  that 
way.  If  you  could  shpare  me  a  squad  of  men 
that  can  climb  like  goats,  I'll  take  them  back 
wid  me  an'  they  will  come  in  handy.  I'll  put 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY  255 

them  on  the  hill  while  I  go  down  into  the  valley 
to  me  tepee. " 

"You  shall  have  them,"  said  the  colonel. 
"Let  us  go  back  now." 

When  the  two  men  reached  the  camp  they 
were  greeted  with  a  ringing  outburst  of  cheers ; 
although  Danny  was  painted  like  an  Indian 
and  dressed  as  one,  his  comrades  recognized 
him. 

"Men,"  said  the  colonel,  "Meagher  has 
given  us  the  location  of  the  Indian  camp.  We 
are  going  up  the  canyon  to-night,  we  will  hit 
them  in  the  morning.  Meagher  wants  some 
men  who  can  climb  like  goats  and  who  can 
stand  a  hard  march,  to  go  with  him  to  take 
a  position  on  the  hills  overlooking  the  camp. 
Who  will  volunteer?" 

' '  I  for  one, ' '  cried  Hadden.  ' '  My  horses  are 
dead  beat  now  and  my  whole  troop  will  go 
afoot  if  you  Will  let  us. ' ' 

"Good,"  said  Compton.  "Let  every  man 
of  the  troop  that  wishes  to  go  with  you,  Mr. 
Hadden;  the  rest  of  you  saddle  up  and  get 
ready  to  move  out.  We'll  take  every  man 
jack  that  can  go,  leaving  the  sick  and  the 
wagon  train  with  the  teamsters.  The  chief 


256       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

teamster  can  command  the  camp.  We  ought 
to  strike  the  hostiles  by  morning. ' ' 

"Tain't  up  the  canyon  yere,  is  it?"  asked 
Marnette. 

" No,"  answered  Danny,  " after  you  have 
gone  ahout  eight  miles  up,  there's  a  narrow 
little  drift  in  the  mountains " 

"I've  seen  it,"  said  Marnette.  "I  didn't 
know  it  led  anywhere." 

' ' Well,  it  does,"  said  Danny.  "If  you  follow 
that  canyon  for  a  mile,  you  come  to  a  broader 
pass  an'  if  you  follow  that  for  five  miles  more, 
over  the  range,  you  come  to  one  of  them 
holes,  pockets  that  is,  as  level  as  a  floor,  and 
big  enough  for  a  brigade  camp.  There  ain't 
nobody  knows  of  it  except  the  Cheyennes. 
Once  there  an'  you've  got  'em." 

"I  know  it  now,"  said  Marnette.  "I  have 
heard  of  it;  strange  I  was  such  a  dumb  fool 
as  to  forgit  it.  It's  the  best  place  in  the  whole 
Big  Horn  Eange  for  Dull  Knife  to  lie  con- 
cealed." 

"  'Tis  indeed,"  said  Danny.  "Now  I'd  bet- 
ter go  back  to  the  camp,  wid  the  colonel's  per- 
mission, sor." 

"You  have  it,"  answered  Compton. 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY  257 

4  *  It's  a  cold  night,  sor,"  said  Danny  sug- 
gestively. 

"Here,"  laughed  the  colonel,  handing  him 
his  own  flask,  "we  haven't  got  much  of  that 
stuff,  Meagher,  but  what  we  have  you  are 
welcome  to." 

"We  are  all  ready,  Meagher,"  said  Mr. 
Hadden,  coming  up  with  his  trooper  behind 
him. 

"All  right,  sor,"  said  Meagher.  "Plaise 
may  I  ask  the  colonel  one  question  afore  I 
go?" 

"A  dozen  if  you  want,"  answered  Compton 
promptly. 

"How's  Molly,  sor." 

"Well,  I  believe.  She's  back  at  the  fort 
with  Mrs.  Compton  and  the  rest,  praying 
every  hour  on  her  knees  for  you  and  our 
success." 

"Thank  you,  sor.  Afther  I  have  sarved  my 
term  for  me  neglected  juty,"  said  Danny,  "if 
I'm  not  shot,  I'll  ask  the  colonel's  permission 
to  marry  her." 

"You  have  it  now,"  returned  the  colonel. 

i  t  Thank  you  again,  sor, ' '  said  Danny,  grate- 
fully beaming  on  Jiis  commander. 


258       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"Good-bye,"  said  Compton,  extending  Ms 
hand.  Meagher  shook  it,  awkwardly  saluted, 
and  turned  away  followed  by  Hadden. 

It  was  quite  dark  now  and  the  men  filed  by, 
in  the  light  snow  that  was  falling,  like  grey 
ghosts.  In  a  minute  the  line  halted  and  Danny 
turned  and  came  back. 

"If  you  plaise,  sor,  I'll  be  afther  wearin'  a 
white  buffalo  robe  when  the  ould  Fourteenth 
raches  the  camp  that  belongs  to  Dull  Knife. 
It's  the  only  one  in  the  camp,  but  I  can  git  it. 
Will  you  kindly  pass  the  worrd  among  the 
bhoys  not  to  fire  at  any  one  wearin'  a  white 
buffalo  robe.  I'm  apt  to  be  in  the  thick  av  it 
wid  the  little  girl ;  'tis  not  so  much  for  me  self 
I'm  carin'." 

"Good.  We  will  watch  out  for  you, 
Meagher, ' '  said  the  colonel. 

"Thank  you,  sor,"  and  he  was  gone  again, 
and  in  less  than  a  minute  Hadden  and  his 
troop  had  disappeared. 

It  took  ten  minutes  perhaps  for  the  rest  of 
the  regiment  to  get  in  line  and  move  out.  The 
sick,  the  frozen,  the  snow-blind  and  the  in- 
valids were  left  behind  with  the  wagon  train, 
all  deploring  the  hard  fate  that  deprived  them 


THEY  PLUNGED  DESPERATELY  ON   IN  THE  DRIFTING  SNOW 


DANNY  SHOWS  THE  WAY  259 

of  the   chance  of  participating  in  this  des- 
perate adventure. 

With  Compton  and  Marnette  at  their  head, 
the  troopers  saddled  their  horses  and  started 
up  the  trail  in  a  column  of  fours.  They  went 
slowly,  but  they  plunged  desperately  on  in  the 
drifting  snow  and  the  bitter  night. 


XVIII 

HOW  THEY  ADVANCED  IN  THE  COLD 
HELL  OF  THE  PASS 

FOB  hours  the  troops  plodded  slowly 
and  painfully  up  the  canyon.  Some- 
times the  icy,  snow-covered  trail,  not 
a  good  one  under  most  favorable  conditions, 
narrowed  so  that  it  was  necessary  for  the 
long  column  to  pass  over  it  in  single  file.  Fre- 
quently they  crossed  from  one  side  of  the  can- 
yon to  the  other  on  huge  boulders  lying  in  the 
bed  of  the  stream  which  would  have  been  ab- 
solutely impossible  for  the  horses  had  not  the 
space  between  been  filled  with  masses  of  ice, 
beneath  which  the  low  torrent  ran. 

Fortunately  when  they  got  well  within  the 
canyon,  it  stopped  snowing,  the  wind  died 
down,  and  about  ten  o'clock  at  night  the  full 
moon  burst  from  the  clouds  and  gave  them 
abundance  of  light,  save  where  the  towering 
walls  of  the  pass,  sometimes  rising  several 

260 


THE  COLD  HELL  OF  THE  PASS 

thousand  feet,  threw  the  trail  far  beneath  into 
deep  shadow. 

In  spite  of  their  precautions,  there  were 
many  accidents.  Horses  stumbled  and  fell 
into  the  river,  carrying  men  with  them.  In  one 
instance  a  trooper  was  dashed  against  a  wall 
of  rock  and  killed.  Although  the  wind  and 
snow  had  both  ceased,  the  cold  was  intense. 
Only  the  most  heroic  resolution,  the  most  in- 
domitable persistence,  animating  their  other- 
wise frigid  hearts  enabled  the  troops  to  sus- 
tain it.  They  plodded  along  silently,  Mar- 
nette,  with  the  colonel,  in  the  lead.  Conversa- 
tion was  so  painful  as  to  be  almost  impossible 
and  speech  was  only  resorted  to  in  direst  ne- 
cessity. The  old  scout  seemed  to  have  an  un- 
erring faculty  of  picking  out  the  most  practica- 
ble places  for  the  slow  advance  of  the  freezing 
command.  Whenever  the  canyon  opened  into 
a  little  pocket  as  it  did  sometimes,  the  troops 
were  halted  and  assembled,  stragglers  were 
brought  up  and  order  was  restored. 

It  was  one  o'clock  in  the  cold  still  winter 
morning  when  they  reached  the  narrow  en- 
trance of  the  transverse  glacial  canyon  which 
led  to  the  "hole,"  where  Dull  Knife  had  con- 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

cealed  himself.  It  was  a  mere  rift  in  the  wall, 
as  if  some  titanic  hand  had  cleft  it  with  some 
mighty  blade  from  the  lofty  rim  to  the 
abysmal  depth  far  below.  The  narrow  en- 
trance, scarcely  affording  passage  to  a  horse 
and  rider,  looked  grim  and  terrible.  It  was, 
of  course,  too  deep  for  any  light  from  the 
moon  to  penetrate  and  seemed  like  a  thin 
black  scar  in  the  face  of  the  ice-bound  wall  of 
the  pass. 

No  wonder  the  scouts  had  passed  it  by  un- 
heeded, when  they  had  before  examined  this 
canyon.  The  walls  here  towered  at  least  fif- 
teen hundred  feet  above  the  trail  and  the 
opening  was  a  mere  thread.  A  closer  inspec- 
tion showed  that  the  lateral  canyon  also  bent 
sharply  about  a  hundred  feet  from  its  inter- 
section with  the  greater  pass  and  unless  a  very 
careful  examination  of  the  spot  was  made,  it 
looked  more  like  a  niche  or  scarred  recess  in 
the  face  of  the  mountain  than  anything  else. 

The  main  pass  was  here  a  little  wider  than 
ordinarily  and  trees  grew  on  the  banks  of  the 
stream,  which  was  fortunate  for  the  soldiers, 
for  otherwise  they  would  have  been  com- 
pelled to  ford  the  icy  torrent,  which  would 


THE  COLD  HELL  OF  THE  PASS      263 

have  been  difficult,  perhaps  impossible.  Axes 
had  been  brought  along  and  soon  four  huge 
pines  lay  across  the  brook.  By  means  of  this 
improvised  bridge,  the  command  presently 
reached  the  other  side.  The  strongest  troop- 
ers under  Major  Dexter  briefly  scouted  the 
narrow  pass  and  returning  reported  it  was 
empty.  Indeed  all  the  veteran  fighters  knew 
that  no  Indian  on  the  continent  would  be 
abroad  on  such  a  night  if  it  could  possibly  be 
avoided.  The  troops  were  certain  they  would 
not  be  under  observation,  therefore  they 
cleared  a  little  space  in  the  snow  and  by  means 
of  dry  pine  branches  a  huge  fire  was  soon 
kindled,  coffee  was  made  for  the  men,  and  the 
horses  were  watered  and  given  a  scanty  feed- 
ing. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  they 
started,  Marnette  again  in  the  lead.  The  new 
canyon  was  so  narrow,  and  ran  in  such  a  di- 
rection that  it  was  almost  pitch  dark  within 
it.  Fortunately  the  brook,  which  ran  through 
it  in  the  spring,  summer,  and  fall,  had  either 
been  dried  up  before  the  winter  set  in,  or  it 
had  been  frozen  solid;  the  snow  too  was  as 
hard  as  iron,  so  the  going  was  easier — other- 


264       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

wise  it  would  have  been  impossible.  The 
black  rocks  jutting  out  of  the  white  crest  were 
easily  discerned  and  avoided  by  the  twisting, 
stumbling,  ever-mounting  column. 

There  were  a  dozen  places  in  the  winding, 
turning,  climbing  trail  through  the  mountains 
where  a  dozen  men  could  have  held  the  pass 
against  a  thousand,  but  there  were  no  men 
there.  Dull  Knife  was  confident  that  his  re- 
treat would  be  undiscovered,  and  had  no  idea 
that  there  were  any  troops  on  earth  which 
would  have  the  hardihood  to  struggle  up  the 
frost-bound  canyon  on  such  a  night  in  such 
weather.  Doubtless  he  felt  as  safe  as  if  he  had 
been  in  Gibraltar,  had  he  known  anything 
about  that  famous  fortress.  But  he  was  to 
learn  before  the  morning  of  what  the  Ameri- 
can soldier  was  capable,  and  that  the  polar 
temperature  itself  could  not  congeal  him,  or 
his  horse  either. 

The  rare  cold  grew  more  and  more  intense 
as  the  trail  through  the  canyon — if  such  it 
could  be  called — mounted  gradually  upward. 
They  attained  a  height  of  nine  thousand  feet 
in  this  narrow  pass  before  they  began  to  de- 
scend. Once  in  it  they  had  to  go  on,  as  there 


THE  COLD  HELL  OF  THE  PASS      265 

was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  To  stop  was  to 
die,  to  turn  back  would  be  to  perish  miser- 
ably. There  was  salvation  in  the  advance,  and 
nowhere  else.  They  had  to  seize  Dull  Knife's 
camp  to  get  rest,  food,  and  fire. 

With  bent  heads  they  plodded  mechanically 
on,  keeping  together  by  a  sort  of  instinctive 
coherence,  obedient  to  habit  acquired  through 
long  years  of  soldiering.  Often  they  had  to 
dismount  and  lead  their  horses  for  long  dis- 
tances. This  relieved  the  horses  and  in  a 
measure  warmed  the  men. 

Only  the  most  heroic  care  on  the  part  of 
the  officers  prevented  straggling;  benumbed, 
dazed  men  seeking  occasion  to  drop  from  their 
horses  and  lie  down  to  sleep  and  die.  Some 
of  them  did  succeed  in  getting  away  from  the 
column  unobserved  in  the  darkness,  and  were 
seen  no  more.  But  the  great  majority  strug- 
gled desperately  on.  The  horrors  of  that  win- 
ter march  of  Compton's  men  were  never  for- 
gotten by  the  army.  It  was  a  tale  to  tell 
around  warm  firesides  on  wild  winter  nights. 

After  they  had  passed  the  high  point,  and 
the  descent  began,  the  temperature  grew  a 
little  more  bearable;  but  it  was  still  fright- 


266       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

fully  severe.  Conversation  was,  of  course, 
practically  impossible,  yet  some  there  were 
whose  positions  and  duties  compelled  them  to 
speak  with  frozen  lips. 

"We  must  be  near,"  said  Marnette  to  the 
colonel  at  last. 

He  was  an  unerring  judge  of  distance  and 
he  was  certain  that  they  must  now  be  close  to 
the  place  that  Meagher  described. 

The  colonel  raised  his  head,  he  also  lifted  his 
hand,  those  nearest  him  stopped  and  then  those 
farther  away;  it  needed  but  a  suggestion  to 
bring  the  whole  long  column,  which  came 
crowding  slowly  onward,  to  a  halt.  The  pant- 
ing horses  were  too  exhausted  to  move.  There 
was  neither  shaking  of  heads,  nor  pawing  of 
hoofs,  nor  jingling  of  bits.  Their  riders 
leaned  over  their  saddles  as  motionless  as  the 
canyon  walls.  The  officers  slowly  crowded  to 
the  front  near  the  colonel.  Clouds  of  mist 
from  many  breaths  of  men  and  animals  hung 
undisturbed  above  them  in  the  stillness  of 
that  terrible  morning. 

What  had  stopped  them  was  soon  apparent. 
In  that  thin  air,  in  that  intense  cold,  sound 
carried  a  long  distance.  They  heard  a  dog 


THE  COLD  HELL  OF  THE  PASS      267 

bark!  They  were  near  the  Indian  camp  evi- 
dently. It  was  about  half  past  four  in  the 
morning.  Through  a  rift  in  the  range  they 
saw  the  whitish  gray  of  the  dawn.  As  they 
listened  the  dogs  barked  again. 

" Gentlemen, "  said  Compton,  "Dull  Knife's 
lair." 

The  words  seemed  to  put  new  vigor  into 
the  troopers.  One  would  have  said,  as  they 
reeled  down  the  trail,  they  seemed  to  be  at  the 
last  gasp  of  human  endurance.  Yet  it  was 
really  not  so ;  these  men  had  still  some  reserve 
force.  The  colonel's  three  words  had  called 
it  into  action. 

"Carbines  and  revolvers,"  said  Compton. 

He  loosened  his  own  pistol  in  its  holster 
and  unslung  the  carbine  he  carried  across  his 
shoulders  in  common  with  the  other  officers 
and  men,  and  dropped  it  lightly  in  front  of 
him  across  his  saddle.  Without  a  word  the 
men  did  the  same,  although  his  and  their  hands 
were  so  benumbed,  in  spite  of  thick  fur  gloves 
they  all  wore,  that  their  fingers  would  scarcely 
do  their  work. 

"We  will  jump  the  village  the  minute  we 
see  it,"  he  continued.  "Keep  fast  the  sabre 


A  BABY  OP  THE  FRONTIER 

until  we  come  close  to  them.  Do  you  under- 
stand i" 

A  hoarse,  snarling  growl  of  assent  came 
from  those  nearest,  and  both  word  and  re- 
sponse were  passed  down  the  long  ranks  un- 
til the  weakest  stragglers  at  the  other  end 
heard  and  were  inspired  by  them.  The  men's 
wordless  answer  was  beast-like,  perhaps,  but 
only  men  could  have  given  utterance  at  all. 

"I'll  ride  for'ard  to  the  bend  in  the  pass," 
said  Marnette,  pointing  ahead  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile,  "and  see  how  things  lay." 

"Go  ahead,"  said  the  colonel. 

Like  a  white-frosted  rime-covered  ghost, 
Marnette  ventured  ahead.  He  dismounted 
when  he  reached  the  bend  and  plodded  out  of 
sight  on  foot.  He  was  back  in  a  few  minutes, 
meeting  the  command  slowly  advancing  as  he 
came. 

"I  couldn't  keep  them  still  longer,  they  were 
freezing  to  death,"  explained  the  colonel. 
"We  had  to  move." 

Marnette  nodded. 

"They  are  there,"  he  said.  "The  trail 
breaks  sharp  to  the  right  an'  opens  into  a 
beautiful  pocket,  wide  enough  for  the  hull 


THE  GOLD  HELL  OF  THE  PASS      269 

regiment  to  form  line.  The  village  is  under' 
the  north  bluff,  facin'  south,  an'  the  pony  herd 
is  to  the  south  an'  below.  Fires  are  almost 
out,  there's  no  watch,  everybody  is  in  the 
tepees  asleep.  They  don't  dream  there's  a 
soldier  within  a  hundred  miles  of  'em." 

"Good,"  said  the  colonel.  "He  turned  and 
rode  back  along  the  line,  the  men  had  by  this 
time  got  themselves  into  column  of  fours. 
"Calmore,"  said  the  colonel,  stopping  at  the 
head  of  the  first  squadron.  * '  Detach  one  troop 
to  pass  around  the  village  to  the  left  to  try 
to  capture  the  pony  herd. ' ' 

"Captain  Emmett,"  said  Calmore,  "to  you 
that  duty." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"The  rest  of  the  squadron  will  form  line 
the  instant  they  debouch  from  the  pass  and 
ride  through  the  village,  driving  the  Chey- 
ennes  before  them.  Be  careful  of  the  women 
and  children,  one  of  the  latter  may  be  my 
own,"  said  Compton. 

"I  understand,  sir,"  answered  Calmore. 

"Don't  fire  on  an  Indian  wearing  a  white 
blanket  if  you  can  help  it;  that  may  be 
Meagher." 


270       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

"We  will  take  good  care." 

"I  know  you  will,  Calmore,"  said  the 
colonel,  riding  down  toward  Dexter 's  squad- 
ron, which  brought  up  the  rear. 

"God  give  us  luck,  sir,"  cried  Calmore, 
after  his  superior  as  he  rode  away. 

The  instructions  to  Calmore  were  repeated 
to  Dexter,  save  that  the  latter  was  directed 
to  hold  his  rear  troop  as  a  reserve  to  be  thrown 
into  action  whenever  circumstances  might  de- 
termine. 

"Close  up,"  said  the  colonel,  "let's  have  no 
straggling;  and  now,"  he  continued,  raising 
his  voice,  "let  every  man  make  his  peace  with 
God,  and  do  his  best." 

There  was  no  cheering,  only  that  low  mut- 
tering, ominous  growl  again.  The  colonel 
reached  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  line  and 
glanced  back. 

"Forward,"  he  said  softly,  and  the  march 
at  once  began. 

The  wind  was  blowing  toward  them  from 
the  camp.  They  could  hear  the  dogs  again. 
But  as  yet  it  was  only  desultory  barking,  for 
the  Indian  curs  had  not  yet  scented  them, 
what  wind  there  was  blowing  in  the  faces  of 


THE  COLD  HELL  OF  THE  PASS      271 

the  soldiers.  The  trail  was  now  broad  and 
smooth. 

"  Trot-march, "  cried  the  colonel. 

The  pace  was  accelerated,  the  rapid  move- 
ment warmed  them  a  little,  they  went  faster, 
they  forgot  for  a  moment  the  awful  gripping 
cold,  the  trot  grew  more  rapid  until  they 
reached  the  bend  in  the  trail  and  looked  down 
into  the  valley.  The  camp  and  hundreds  of 
tepees  lay  before  them.  Faint  smoke  rose 
from  dying  fires  here  and  there  among  the 
tents,  but  not  a  human  soul  was  visible.  They 
caught  sight  of  a  dog  slinking  from  tepee  to 
tepee.  Emmett,  preserving  his  column  forma- 
tion, now  broke  to  the  left  and  galloped  off 
toward  the  pony  herd,  the  rest  formed  into 
line  in  the  open  on  the  double-quick. 

The  dogs  in  the  village  scented  them  at 
last,  a  wild  howl  and  a  furious  barking  rose 
on  all  sides,  tepee  flaps  were  instantly  thrown 
aside,  heads  peered  out  sleepily,  to  awaken 
into  full  life  and  action  in  a  second. 

"Charge!"  roared  Compton  with  all  the 
vigor  he  could  command. 


XIX 

THE  WINTER  FIGHT 

THE  horses'  hoofs  thundered  on  the  hard 
snow.  The  men  cheered.  Their  blood 
was  up.  It  seemed  warmer. 
The  village  was  suddenly  red  with  naked 
men.  The  Indian  sleeps  without  clothing  be- 
neath his  blankets  and  furs,  even  in  the  cold- 
est weather.  Every  brave  had  at  least  a  car- 
tridge belt  and  a  Winchester.  There  was  some 
distance  between  the  mouth  of  the  pass  and 
the  village,  the  galloping  horses  had  not  trav- 
ersed it  when  a  sudden  crashing  outburst  of 
sound  filled  the  valley.  This  was  followed  by 
a  steady  crackling  as  every  rifle  in  the  hands 
of  five  hundred  braves  was  discharged  at  first 
with  one  volley  as  it  were  by  instinct,  followed 
by  a  rapid  storm  of  bullets  which  swept  across 
the  snowy  level.  But  the  Cheyennes  only  just 
awakened  from  sleep,  and  not  good  shots  at 
best,  did  not  do  the  execution  with  their  hasty 
firing  which  might  have  been  expected,  con- 

272 


THE  WINTER  FIGHT  273 

sidering  the  closeness  of  the  range  and  the 
largeness  of  the  target. 

It  was  impossible  to  miss  entirely,  however, 
soldiers  threw  up  their  arms  and  fell  here  and 
there,  while  horses  went  crashing  down  on  the 
snow.  The  firing  of  the  Indians  was  as  in- 
effective to  stop  that  rush  as  dust  thrown  at 
a  storm. 

The  next  instant  the  troops  were  among  the 
tepees,  and  the  rattle  of  their  carbines  and  the 
sharper  staccato  notes  of  their  revolvers 
showed  how  quickly  they  got  to  work.  But 
the  courage  of  the  Cheyennes  was  magnificent. 
After  their  first  surprise  they  rallied  splen- 
didly. The  onrush  of  the  charge  was  checked 
by  the  thick  huddle  of  the  Indian  tents.  The 
Indians  withdrew  to  the  lower  end  of  the  vil- 
lage and  then  desperately,  stubbornly,  kept  up 
the  fighting. 

It  was  difficult  to  use  the  horses  to  advan- 
tage. Compton  gave  the  order  to  dismount 
and  then  led  a  rush  directly  upon  the  Indians. 
The  fighting  was  of  the  hand-to-hand  type. 
The  Indians  were  naked  just  as  they  had  come 
forth.  If  they  lost  that  camp  they  knew  that 
their  condition  in  the  frozen  mountain  range 


274       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

would  be  frightful.  They  must  conquer  or 
die.  Old  Dull  Knife  exposed  himself  reck- 
lessly and  both  he  and  all  his  men  fought 
as  only  the  northern  Cheyennes — bravest 
of  all  savages — braver  even  than  the  Sioux 
—could.  Dull  Knife  was  a  villain,  blood- 
thirsty, cruel,  depraved,  as  were  the  men  he 
led,  but  no  one  could  deny  their  courage. 
Sabres  had  been  left  with  the  horses,  and 
carbines  were  clubbed.  It  was  gun  butt 
against  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife,  white 
arm  against  red  one. 

The  colonel  had  been  looking  eagerly  every- 
where for  his  baby,  the  troopers  had  ridden 
over  numbers  of  Indian  women,  some  fighting 
as  desperately  as  the  men,  but  the  most  of 
them  fleeing  to  the  side,  with  their  children,  to 
get  out  of  the  way  of  the  battle,  but  there  had 
been  no  sign  of  the  little  white  baby  anywhere. 
Suddenly  from  out  the  Indian  ranks  a  man 
wearing  a  white  buffalo  robe  and  carrying  a 
child  in  his  arms  burst  into  the  open  space  be- 
tween the  soldiers  and  the  Cheyennes. 

"Meagher!"  exclaimed  the  colonel. 

There  had  been  a  little  temporary  cessation 
in  the  combat  for  a  moment,  while  the  rival 


THE  WINTER  FIGHT  275 

fighters  gathered  themselves  for  a  final  strug- 
gle. 

"Hold  your  fire,"  cried  Compton  to  his 
men. 

The  soldiers  dropped  the  carbines  they  had 
presented  at  the  advancing  figure.  But  the 
Indians  recognized  at  once  what  was  up  and 
a  storm  of  bullets  swept  toward  Meagher.  He 
had  foreseen  it  and  just  before  the  volley  he 
ran  swifty  to  one  side  toward  the  narrow  wall 
of  the  valley,  which  here  rose  sheer  above  the 
camp.  He  threw  himself  against  the  wall, 
thrust  the  child  behind  him,  and  stood  defiant. 
Winchester  and  revolver  in  hand.  He  was 
yelling  like  a  madman,  as  his  barbaric  Celtic 
forbears  had  done  in  many  a  battle  of  the  past. 

It  was  daylight  now  and  the  soldiers  and 
Indians  alike  saw  him  plainly.  With  a  whoop 
of  rage  the  great  Cheyenne  chief  made  for 
him,  with  others  of  his  following.  Colonel 
Compton  started  at  full  speed  for  him  also  and 
the  whole  regiment  followed  to  a  man. 

The  Indians  were  naked,  or  very  lightly 
clad,  while  the  soldiers  were  in  heavy  march- 
ing order  and  further  encumbered  by  great 
fur  overcoats.  The  Indians  had  much  the 


276       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

shorter  distance  to  traverse,  too,  and  they 
reached  Meagher  the  more  quickly. 

Danny  Meagher  did  not  wait  for  them.  His 
rifle  cracked  again  and  again  as  they  came  on, 
until  the  magazine  was  empty,  then  his  re- 
volver spat  into  their  faces.  He  received  a 
half  dozen  wounds,  but  the  blood  of  the  fight- 
ing Irish  had  not  yet  been  drained  from  his 
veins.  Battling  with  the  savage  ferocity  of 
the  Indians  themselves,  he  leaped  toward  the 
red  horde,  his  gun  rising  and  falling  like  a 
flail.  Then  they  grappled  him,  pulling  him 
down  as  big  grey  wolves  pull  down  a  righting 
buffalo.  The  next  second  the  troopers  were 
upon  them. 

The  whole  open  was  filled  with  a  twisting, 
struggling  mass.  The  advantage  was  not  al- 
ways with  the  soldiers  in  this  hand-to-hand 
fighting,  but  the  superior  weight  and  more 
desperate  courage  of  the  white  race  finally 
told. 

The  Indians  were  driven  back.  Dull  Knife, 
fighting  in  the  front,  had  received  a  dozen 
wounds.  Then  they  broke  and  fled,  struggling 
down  the  open  toward  the  narrows  at  the 
farther  end.  There  was  not  a  solitary  pony 


THE  WINTER  FIGHT  277 

for  the  chief  even.  Emmett  had  rounded  up 
the  herd,  not  without  some  fighting,  for  a  little 
section  of  the  village  with  many  braves  had 
been  pitched  upon  the  other  side. 

The  soldiers  sought  to  follow,  but  encum- 
bered as  they  were,  they  were  no  match  in 
speed  for  the  Indians,  and  for  the  moment 
Colonel  Compton  had  forgotten  everything 
but  Danny  Meagher  and  his  precious  burden. 

Little  Miss  Marion,  too  frightened  to  cry 
out,  they  found  to  be  absolutely  unhurt.  She 
was  dressed  in  buckskins  and  feathers,  her 
little  face  smeared  with  paint,  but  she  was 
alive  and  well.  Colonel  Compton  clasped  her 
in  his  arms  and  then  turned  to  look  at 
Meagher.  He  was  a  gory-looking  spectacle, 
his  white  blanket  cut  and  torn  to  rags  and 
covered  with  blood  welling  from  wounds  on 
his  broad  breast.  Yet  he  was  conscious  still. 

"I  got  her,"  said  he.  "Lef tenant  Hadden 
will  be  along  presently.  Sure  'tis  dyin'  I  am, 
but  you'll  give  me  back  me  place  in  the  regi- 
ment, sor." 

"That  I  will,  my  brave  boy,"  said  the 
colonel. 

"And  you'll  tell— Molly,"  faltered  Danny, 


278       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

and  then  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  lapsed  into 
unconsciousness. 

"  Major  Osmond, "  cried  Compton. 

"Here,  sir,"  said  the  chief  regimental  sur- 
geon, forcing  his  way  to  his  superior's  side. 

"Look  after  this  man.    Do  your  best." 

And  Osmond  dropped  to  his  knees  beside 
the  unconscious  soldier. 

The  next  moment  the  crashing  fire  began 
again.  The  chief  had  taken  advantage  of  the 
respite — for  the  men  had  crowded  around  the 
colonel  and  Meagher  and  had  burst  into  a 
cheering  at  the  sight  of  the  baby — and  had 
rallied  his  men,  in  the  narrow  mouth  of  the 
canyon,  which  continued  the  trail.  From  this 
opening  and  from  behind  a  natural  entrench- 
ment of  rocks  he  opened  fire.  The  Indians 
were  doing  more,  Dull  Knife  had  not  fought 
in  Crazy  Horse's  school  without  learning 
something.  He  was  not  beaten  yet.  There 
were  practicable  trails  ascending  the  wall  to 
the  south,  he  detached  part  of  his  men  to 
scale  it,  and  from  high  points,  inaccessible  to 
the  troops  in.  the  village,  poured  in  a  drop- 
ping and  disastrous  fire. 

"Get  into  line,"  roared  the  colonel,  quickly 


THE  WINTER  FIGHT  279 

disposing  his  baby  by  the  side  of  the  gallant 
soldier  who  had  fought  for  her  and  the  sur- 
geon who  was  looking  after  him.  "We  must 
rush  the  pass." 

Seconded  by  their  officers,  the  troops  were 
soon  taking  their  positions  coolly,  though  un- 
der a  galling  fire.  At  command  they  advanced, 
but  were  met  by  such  a  heavy  fire  from  the 
Indians  behind  the  rocks  as  for  the  moment 
checked  them.  The  line  staggered,  wavered, 
and  came  to  a  halt.  Compton,  Calmore,  Dex- 
ter, and  the  other  officers  leaped  to  the  front. 

"We've  got  to  do  it,"  the  colonel  cried. 
"Nothing  is  gained  as  long  as  they  are  there. 
Forward — forward. ' ' 

"For  the  honor  of  the  Fourteenth,"  roared 
Calmore. 

The  men  took  a  surge  forward,  they  bent 
their  heads  as  they  had  bent  them  before  the 
driving  snow  and  came  on,  but  whether  they 
would  have  succeeded  in  dislodging  the  four 
hundred  surviving  Cheyennes,  over  one  hun- 
dred of  them  already  having  been  killed,  was 
a  grave  question. 

The  colonel,  emptying  his  revolver  toward 
the  Indians,  looked  upward,  half  in  prayer, 


280       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

half  in  hope  of  seeing  something  of  Hadden. 
At  that  instant,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  unspoken 
appeal,  the  rim  of  the  canyon  was  filled  with 
men.  By  a  lucky  chance  Hadden — whom 
Meagher  had  left  behind — struck  the  "hole" 
just  where  the  further  pass  ran  out  of  it, 
where  the  Cheyennes  had  elected  to  make 
their  stand.  The  excited  men,  seeing  the 
whole  course  of  the  battle  beneath  them,  threw 
themselves  face  down  on  the  brink  and  opened 
fire  at  point-blank  range  into  the  rear  and  on 
the  flank  of  the  Cheyennes.  The  sound  of  the 
first  shot  from  above  quickened  the  troops 
below,  and  the  next  instant  they  were  among 
the  rocks  firing  and  fighting  hand-to-hand 
again. 

Dull  Knife,  tomahawk  in  hand,  sprang  at 
Compton  who  was  leading.  The  great  war 
chief  was  covered  with  wounds  and  was  a  gory 
spectacle.  Pealing  a  war  cry,  he  lifted  his 
hatchet.  Compton  was  weaponless,  but  clos- 
ing with  the  Indian,  he  fell  upon  him  with  all 
his  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds  of  bone 
and  sinew  and  struck  him  on  the  side  of  the 
head  a  terrible  blow  with  his  fist.  Dull  Knife 
staggered,  and  Marnette,  who  was  ever  by  the 


THE  WINTER  FIGHT  281 

side  of  the  colonel,  put  a  knife  through  the 
old  chief's  heart.  The  rest  of  the  Indians 
broke  and  ran,  followed  by  devastating  shots 
from  the  soldiers. 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  Indians  had  been 
killed,  the  remainder  got  away.  They  were 
naked,  shelterless,  and  freezing,  adrift  in  the 
mountains. 

The  battle  was  over,  and  Compton  was  as- 
tonished to  discover  that  he  was  in  a  profuse 
perspiration  in  spite  of  the  cold. 


EPILOGUE 

IN  WHICH  IT  IS  CLEAELY  SEEN  THAT 
ALL  ENDS  WELL 

THERE  is  little  more  to  add.  Victory 
had  been  complete.  Dull  Knife  had 
been  killed  and  his  band,  as  an  or- 
ganized force,  annihilated.  His  women  and 
children  in  the  camp  were  in  the  hands  of 
Compton.  The  surviving  braves,  suffering  in- 
credible hardships  during  which  many  per- 
ished from  cold,  struggled  on,  over  the  moun- 
tains and  through  the  passes  until  they  could 
join  other  bodies  of  Indians  more  fortunate 
than  themselves. 

The  camp  was  destroyed,  every  tepee  was 
burned  with  all  the  supplies,  save  just  enough 
to  ration  the  troops  and  captives  on  their  re- 
turn march  to  the  camp  and  Fort  Sullivan. 
The  Indian  women  and  children,  numbering 
several  hundred,  were  mounted  on  the  cap- 
tured ponies  and  the  rest  of  the  herd  shot. 
This  was  cruel  work,  but  the  soldiers  knew 


EPILOGUE  283 

only  one  way  to  deal  with  Indians  in  that  day, 
and  that  was,  to  exterminate  them  and  all 
their  belongings. 

The  men  were  allowed  to  rest  until  noon, 
warming  themselves  by  the  huge  fires  and 
eating  their  fill  of  the  winter's  store  of  buffalo 
meat,  which  Dull  Knife's  band  had  provided. 

Hadden's  men,  who  had  made  a  fearful 
march  over  the  snow-covered  mountains,  and 
who  looked  it,  were  also  mounted  on  the  In- 
dian ponies  for  their  return.  The  regiment 
had  lost  thirty-five  killed  and  they  had  nearly 
a  hundred  wounded,  such  had  been  the  fierce- 
ness of  the  close  hand-to-hand  conflict.  Two 
officers  were  among  the  killed  and  three  among 
the  wounded. 

Meagher  was  the  object  of  the  colonel's 
most  intense  solicitude.  If  they  could  get  him 
to  the  fort  the  surgeon  said  that  he  would  re- 
cover. They  made  travois  for  the  least  dan- 
gerously wounded  and  litters  for  those  more 
severely  hurt,  and  with  incredible  love  and 
labor  they  carried  them  down  the  pass. 

Late  at  night  they  reached  the  base  camp. 
On  the  way  they  found  several  of  their  com- 
rades who  had  straggled  from  the  line  and  had 


A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

been  frozen  to  death  with  their  horses,  ghastly 
monuments,  covered  with  ice  and  snow,  of  the 
human  and  brutal  resolution  which  had  strug- 
gled on  until  death  intervened. 

The  journey  back  to  Fort  Sullivan,  terrible 
as  it  was,  seemed  easy  compared  to  what  they 
had  undergone ;  and  a  week  after  they  broke 
camp  the  column  marched  falteringly  through 
the  main  gate  and  then  was  dismissed  to  the 
arms  of  its  women. 

A  courier  had  gone  on  ahead,  the  indomi- 
table Marnette  whom  no  hardships  or  anxie- 
ties could  daunt,  and  the  old  scout  in  great  joy 
had  told  the  young  mother,  whom  he  loved, 
the  story  of  the  rescue  of  her  daughter.  Mar- 
nette would  not  have  missed  the  chance  for 
anything.  Marion  Compton  met  her  husband 
at  the  gate  and  took  the  baby  from  his  arms 
to  her  heart.  For  the  first  time  the  colonel 
had  to  take  the  second  place,  but  only  for  a 
little  while.  Molly,  who  was  close  behind,  in 
obedience  to  the  colonePs  gesture,  went  to  the 
side  of  Danny  Meagher's  litter,  bent  over  it 
sobbing,  and  kissed  him  boldly  before  them  all. 

Charges  against  Meagher  were,  of  course, 
dismissed.  A  sergeant  of  C  troop  had  been 


EPILOGUE  285 

among  the  killed,  and  Meagher  was  promoted, 
and  when  he  recovered  there  was  such  a  wed- 
ding in  the  post  as  the  rank  and  file  had  never 
seen,  the  colonel  himself  giving  away  the 
bride.  And  no  sweeter  woman  ever  gave  her 
heart  and  hand  to  a  trooper  than  Molly 
McNeil.  Mrs.  Compton  had  made  the  wed- 
ding-dress, and,  unprecedented  honor,  the 
bachelor,  Major  Calmore  himself,  acted  as 
Meagher 's  best  man. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "Meagher  has  been 
with  me  in  so  many  tight  places  it  was  only 
fair  for  me  to  see  him  through  this. ' ' 

And  there  were  no  prouder  and  happier 
guests  at  the  wedding  than  Sergeant  McNeil 
and  Bridget,  who  had  got  a  leave  of  absence 
from  the  bank  to  come  back  to  the  post  and 
the  old  friends  of  the  regiment.  The  men  of 
B  troop  gave  the  young  couple  a  rousing  send- 
off  as  they  took  the  ambulance  to  the  train  for 
a  wedding  journey  for  which  Colonel  Comp- 
ton provided  the  wherewithal. 

Little  Marion  had  many  stories  to  tell  of  her 
captivity.  The  Indians  had  used  her  well, 
even  the  great  Dull  Knife  had  condescended 
to  exhibit  his  fondness  for  her  from  time  to 


286       A  BABY  OF  THE  FRONTIER 

time,  a  great  concession  from  a  great  warrior 
who  did  not  usually  trouble  himself  much 
about  a  child,  especially  a  girl ! 

She  had  picked  up  many  words  and  phrases 
during  her  sojourn  in  the  tepees  and  one  of 
her  favorite  tricks  was  to  strike  her  little 
breast  with  a  gesture,  in  exact  imitation  of  the 
Indian  manner,  and  say: 

"My  Fader,  Heap  Big  Chief  I" 

It  was  an  assertion  that  no  one  in  the  regi- 
ment had  the  least  desire  to  dispute. 


PRINTED  IN   THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


_  FICTION  WORTH  READING  _ 

CYRUS   TOWNSEND  BRADY 

The  Little  Angel  of  Canyon  Creek 

Illustrated,  i2mo,  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

A  cracking  good  story  of  the  bad  old  days  of  the  Western 
Colorado  mining  camps  —  days  when  a  man's  chances  of 
returning  to  his  cabin  o'nights  depended  very  largely  on  the 
despatch  with  which  he  could  bring  his  gun  to  the  "draw." 
Into  one  of  these  lawless  camps  comes  little  Olaf,  a  homeless 
Wanderer  from  the  East.  His  advent,  followed  by  that  of 
the  Morrisons,  marks  a  new  era  for  Canyon  Creek  which 
ends  in  the  cleaning  up"  of  the  entire  town.  Dr.  Brady 
gives  us  a  captivating  tale,  brim-full  of  the  vim  and  color 
incident  to  days  and  places  where  life  was  cheap,  and  virtue 
both  rare  and  dear. 

MARIETTA    HOLLEY  "Samantha  Allen" 

Josiah  Allen  on  the  Woman  Question 

Ilustrated,  i6mo,  cloth,  net  $1.00. 

A  new  volume  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Holley,  marked  by  such 
quaint  thoughtfulness  and  timely  reflection  as  ran  through 
Samantha."  All  who  read  it  will  be  bound  to  feel  better,  as 
indeed  they  should,  for  they  will  have  done  some  hearty  laughing, 
and  have  been  'up  against'  some  bits  of  striking  philosophy  deliv- 
ered with  point,  vigor,  and  chuckling  humor.  All  Josiah  Allen's 
opinions  are  wittily,  pithily  expressed,  causing  the  whole  book  to 
fairly  bubble  with  homely,  fun-provoking  wisdom. 


The  Misadventures  of  Joseph 

I2mo,  cloth,  net  $1.00. 

A  characteristic  story  in  which  the  author  displays  unusual 
ability  to  portray  with  quiet,  humorous  touch,  the  idiosyn- 
crasies of  Scottish  life  and  character.  Through  a  series  of 
highly  diverting  chapters  a  homely  yet  worthy  house-painter 
extricates  himself  from  many  a  seeming  dilemma,  by  the  ex- 
ercise of  a  kindly  charity  and  the  best  attributes  of  a  man. 


THEODORA  PECK  c 

•  The  Sword  of  Dundee1 

White  Dawn 

A  Legend  of  Ticonderoga.    Illustrated,  net  $1.25. 

A  real  romance,  redolent  of  love  and  war.  The  plot, 
for  the  most  part,  is  laid  in  the  beautiful  Champlain  valley. 
in  the  days  when  the  British  were  storming  Ticonderoga, 
and  the  armies  of  Wolfe  and  Montcalm  striving  for  su- 
premacy in  the  northern  part  of  the  continent.  Miss  Peck 
simply  packs  her  book  with  action,  and  depicts  scene  after 
scene  which  literally  resound  with  the  din  of  battle  and  th« 
clash  of  arms. 


FICTION  WORTH  READING 


S.    R.    CROCKETT        Author  of  "The  Stickit  Minister," 
"  The  Raiders,  "etc. 

Silver  Sand 

A  Romance  of  Old  Galloway.    Cloth,  net  $1.25. 

"In  this  romance  published  only  a  few  days  after  his 
death,  we  find  Mr.  Crockett  in  his  familiar  Wigtownshire, 
writing  at  his  best,  and  giving  us  an  even  finer  display  of  his 
powers  than  when  he  first  captured  his  admirers.  'Silver 
Sand'  is  certainly  one  of  the  best  things  he  ever  did.  Some 
of  the  characters  here  portrayed  are  among  the  best  of  hi* 
many  creations,  with  an  even  added  depth  and  tenderness." — 
Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

CAROLINE  ABBOT  STANLEY 

Dr.  Llewellyn  and  His  Friends 

Illustrated,  I2mo,  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

Mrs.  Stanley's  new  book  is  a  human  chronicle  of  absorbing 
interest.  Humor  and  pathos  of  a  rare  order  alternate  in  its 
pages,  together  with  some  astonishingly  good  delineation  of 
negro  life  and  character.  The  Kansas  City  Star  says:  "If 
there  is  to  be  a  Missouri  school  of  literature  to  rival  the 
famed  Indiana  institution,  Mrs.  Stanley  has  fairly  earned  the 
right  to  a  charter  membership." 

GRACE  LIVINGSTON  HILL  LUTZ 

The  Man  of  the  Desert 

Illustrated,  I2mo,  cloth,  net  $1.25. 

The  author  of  "The  Best  Man,"  "Marcia  Schuyler,"  etc., 
enjoys  no  mean  reputation  as  a  weaver  of  sweet,  wholesome 
romances,  a  reputation  which  "The  Man  of  the  Desert" 
fully  maintains.  Her  latest  book  tells  the  love  story  of  a 
daughter  of  luxury  and  a  plain  man  facing  his  duty  and 
doing  his  work  on  the  home  mission  field  of  the  West.  Every 
reader  of  this  charming  story  will  be  made  to  rejoice  in  the 
happy  triumph  over  difficulties  which  gives  to  these  young 
people  the  crowning  joy  of  life,  the  union  of  kindred  souls. 

THURLOIT  FRASER 

The  Call  of  The  Easl: 

A  Romance  of  Far  Formosa.  Illustrated,  I2mo, 
cloth,  net  $1.25. 

Here  is  a  jewel  in  romance — set  amid  the  blossom-laden 
islands  of  the  Eastern  seas.  To  its  making  go  the  record 
of  one  white  man's  heroism  and  native  worth,  of  another's 
baseness  and  treachery;  some  thrilling  incidents  of  the  French 
invasion  of  Formosa;  a  satisfying  picture  of  the  great 
pioneer  missionary  Mackay,  and  a  love-story  as  old  as  Eden, 
yet  as  fresh  as  the  dews  of  the  morning. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENIWAIS  ONIY-TII.  NO.  64W40S 
This  book  is  due  on  the  Us. t  date Damped  below,  o, 

on  the  date  to  which  ren«*3?-  „ 

Renewed  books  ate  subject  to  immediate  tec 


Due  end  of  SUMMER  Peri 
_1l>hinrt  tn  rnrMI  nfft 


LD2lA-60m-3,'70 
(N5382slO)476-A-32 


General  Library    . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


\ 


